


How To Train Your Dragon (Age)

by magisterpavus



Series: How To Train Your Dragon (Age) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Death, Dragons, Elvhen Pantheon, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Stupid Boys, so many dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 116,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Echo Lavellan accidentally adopts a baby dragon and falls for a Tevinter mage. What could possibly go wrong?</p><p>Everything, as it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a silly little idea and turned into a 100k+ monstrosity that makes me really question my ability to estimate word count (or lack thereof). If you wanna read it, that'd be pretty cool of you to do. <3
> 
> Prepare for complete language butchery (@bioware please give us a better elvhen dictionary), questionable lore (okay, more like COMPLETELY FABRICATED LORE), a cute/badass dragon partly inspired by my doglike cat, angst, fluff, smut, pain, fluff, pain, smut, angst, fluff (in that order), and stupid, stupid boys. Oh man, are they clueless. 
> 
> But hey, at least they're pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you a million times over to Nioell for the lovely cover art!

Right after they’d nearly been barbecued by the Abyssal High Dragon, Dorian and Inquisitor Lavellan fell into a hole.

There were some things that happened before that, of course – Iron Bull said some disturbing things in Qunlat, Cassandra found some loot inside the dragon’s skull (who knew?), Dorian whined about a nasty second-degree burn on his arm, and Lavellan prayed to every god there was that they’d be able to leave this abysmal desert soon. There weren’t enough _trees_. (In fact, there were none. There were maybe, like, three wimpy shrubs in the whole place. It was really unacceptable.)

So Dorian was complaining loudly while they explored the surrounding area for any more hidden loot, with Lavellan right behind him, fretting silently about his burned arm, when the mage tripped on a badly-placed rock, pinwheeled his arms, and fell spectacularly into a gaping crevasse in the ground. His flailing arms managed to knock Lavellan off-balance, and so it was that they both tripped and tumbled into the fissure, Lavellan landing heavily on top of him in a dark grotto that reeked of sulfur.

Dorian made a pained sound. “Get your elbow out of my –”

Lavellan shifted and tried to untangle their limbs. “Ow! You just kicked me!”

“Well I wouldn’t have kicked you if you weren’t so _boney_ – ” The end of Lavellan’s bow smacked Dorian in the face, _completely_ on accident. “Rude!”

A shadow from above fell over them. “You two need some alone time in there?” Bull asked, laughing.

Both of them glared up at him. “So help me, if you don’t get us out of here…” Dorian huffed and finally managed to stumble to his feet.

Bull snorted. “Can’t you get yourself out of there? Move some rocks around with your mind or something.”

Dorian folded his arms. “I’m not a force mage, thank you very much. I _could_ set this whole place on fire…” Lavellan gave him a horrified look. “But I doubt that would help.”

“Get us out,” Lavellan called up. “Find a rope or something, I don’t know!”

Bull grinned salaciously. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of rope.”

Lavellan folded his arms. “ _Really,_ Bull?”

Dorian threw up his hands with an exasperated noise. “Just find Cassandra!”

“What’s the magic word?”

Dorian sent a bolt of furious violet lightning hurtling past Bull’s horns.

“Alright, alright!” Bull conceded, getting to his feet and going to (hopefully) find the Seeker.

Dorian and Lavellan stood as he left, disgruntled and covered in reddish brown dust. The cavern they’d fallen into was small and didn’t seem to connect to any spider-filled tunnels, thankfully, but Lavellan still didn’t like it. He frowned and peered into the shadows. “I hope he comes back soon,” he muttered.

Dorian huffed and leaned against a rock. “He’d better. I still need first aid, and we’re fresh out of elfroot, and if I don’t get patched up soon I’m going to get _scars_ –” He paused as he noticed Lavellan’s anxious expression. “Are you alright?”

Lavellan looked away, grimacing. “Fine. Just…not a big fan of small spaces, is all.”

Dorian grinned. “Really? Like Varric? I suppose we should be lucky there was no Blight for you to take care of in the Deep Roads, then!” He raised an eyebrow. “Still, I think it just adds to your charm. The mighty Inquisitor, afraid of tight places.” He smirked.

Lavellan rolled his eyes, ignoring the innuendo. “And you actually like them? You complain about practically everywhere we go!”

Affronted, Dorian exclaimed, “I do not!”

Lavellan sighed and began ticking off places on his fingers. “The Hinterlands were too barbaric, the Storm Coast was too rainy, the Fallow Mire was too marshy, Crestwood was too plain, Emprise du Lion was too cold, the Emerald Graves had too many trees, the Western Approach has too much sand –”

“I believe you’ve made your point.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes again.

“Anyway, as a matter of fact I don’t _mind_ caves.” Dorian shrugged. “They remind me of the crypts in Nevarra, actually, and those were quite fascinating.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting? Because it’s not. At all.”

Dorian chuckled. “Apologies. But I think you can rest easy – we’ve simply fallen into a glorified ditch. I really don’t think there’s anything in here that could actually hurt us –”

_Crack._

The sound was faint, but Lavellan heard it over the lilting timbre of Dorian’s voice and held up his hand, taking a step towards the source. “There’s something…”

It was louder this time, like someone stepping on glass, and Dorian jumped a little, looking curiously towards the shadowed edge of the cavern. Lavellan crept towards it slowly; hand on his dagger’s hilt. He blinked, eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom. Dorian let a flame flare in his palm, casting the whole area in flickering orange.

Both of them froze when they saw it. “Oh,” Lavellan whispered. “That’s…is that…?”

“An egg,” Dorian said. “Kaffas, it’s one of that dragon’s eggs, and it’s hatching!” Sure enough, the egg shuddered, its mottled russet and tawny surface riddled with growing cracks. It was _huge_ for an egg – probably as big as Lavellan’s entire torso. Then again, the Abyssal High Dragon had been on the larger side, so…

Dorian raised his hand, electricity sparking to life in it, aimed at the egg. Lavellan’s eyes widened and he grabbed Dorian’s arm instinctively. “What’re you doing?!”

Dorian stared at him, clearly unused to anyone interrupting his spells (or him in general). “What does it look like? I’m killing the dragon before it kills us!”

Lavellan frowned. “But it’s not a real dragon _yet_. It’s just a baby!”

Dorian’s brow furrowed. “We’ve dealt with ‘baby’ dragons before, Lavellan. They’re just as nasty and antisocial as the adults. Now, will you please let go of me so I can –”

Lavellan stayed firmly latched on to his wrist. “No. Those dragonlings weren’t hatchlings, they were like…teenagers, I don’t know! All teenagers are, uh, moody and aggressive, right?”

Dorian yanked his hand out of Lavellan’s grip. “I’m sorry, but I won’t risk your safety –”

_CRACK!_

Both of them stumbled back as the egg shattered, destroyed by tiny claws and teeth. A small heap of maroon scales and wings tumbled out of the mess of shell, wobbling as it got to its feet and tried to eat the last remaining bit of yolk on its face. Halfway through, it seemed to notice that it was not alone, and stopped to blink at them with large golden eyes. It sneezed with a little puff of smoke.

Dorian’s arm moved a fraction of an inch and Lavellan darted in front of him, shielding the hatchling and hoping he wasn’t making a terrible mistake by turning his back to it. “Don’t,” he warned. “You want to kill that baby dragon; you have to go through me first. And I don’t think you want to have to explain to Cassandra why the Inquisitor was electrocuted.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous. Move before it sets you on fire.”

Lavellan did not.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “You know I could blast you twenty feet away in a second.”

Lavellan glared. “You do that, and I’ll ship your ass all the way back to Tevinter for insubordination.” Dorian scowled and lowered his hand. “Dispel it,” he added.

Reluctantly, Dorian did. “Happy now?”

Lavellan didn’t answer. Instead he turned and slowly knelt down in front of the dragon, which still wasn’t showing any signs of attacking – as he’d expected. It had just been _born_ , it didn’t inherently want to kill them, right? Besides, it was barely a foot in length and height, with tiny, damp wings hanging uselessly at its sides. It just kept staring at him almost…expectantly.

“Now what?” Dorian asked him snippily. “It would’ve been a mercy to kill it. Now its mother is dead, and it’s just going to starve here and die anyway!”

“No,” Lavellan replied. “It’s not.” He reached out and, biting his lip hard enough to bleed, touched the dragon’s head.

“What’re you doing?!” Dorian squawked. “It’s going to bite you –”

But the dragon did not bite him. Not even close. It started…purring. It leaned into his palm and padded forward unsteadily, nudging its head against his knee and continuing to blink softly at him. It was actually…pretty cute. Lavellan smiled and tucked a hand under its belly, lifting it up. The dragon squirmed a little but seemed to relax against the warmth of his chest, still purring.

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian said faintly. “You’re not seriously…”

“Inquisitor? Dorian? Are you still down there?”

Cassandra’s voice made the dragon squeak and crane its head up curiously. Cassandra was leaning over the edge of the fissure with a long rope coiled in her hand, squinting into the shadows.

“Yes, we’re here,” Lavellan called back up.

“Thank the Maker,” she said, relieved, and uncoiled the rope, tossing the end down to them. “Will this work?”

“Perfectly, thank you!”

Dorian shook his head and hissed, “This is an awful idea.”

“I’m not leaving it,” Lavellan said stubbornly, cradling the hatchling closer.

“Bull is either going to try to kill it or keep it for himself,” Dorian muttered.

Lavellan took ahold of the rope. “He can try.”

*

“Inquisitor, I still think –”

Lavellan strode forward, past Cassandra. “I know what you think, and I am electing to ignore it.”

She frowned. “My family has been hunting dragons for centuries. I believe I know more than enough about those creatures to tell you with absolute certainty that you’re putting yourself and everyone else in danger by taking that thing with you.”

Dorian piped up, “Exactly! She is exactly right! Bringing a baby dragon to Skyhold won’t end well for anyone.”

Bull was practically skipping alongside Lavellan. “Hate to say it, boss, but they’ve got a point. I mean, dragons are great, but they’re not so great to keep in castles full of people. Sure, it’s little now, but everything grows up eventually.” He paused. “Hey, maybe we could keep it locked up somewhere in the mountains and then when it got big, we could train it as some kind of super-weapon –”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Lavellan asked. The dragon yawned. “I appreciate all of your concern and…suggestions, but the dragon is staying with me. I will make sure no harm comes to anyone in Skyhold and if anything happens, you may hold me responsible.”

Bull shrugged. Dorian huffed. Cassandra gave him a worried look. “Inquisitor…why are you so intent on ‘saving’ this dragon? We’ve killed eight high dragons already, including this one’s mother, and you never hesitated to deliver the final blow.”

“Maybe that’s why,” Lavellan murmured, more to himself than to her. “I don’t know. They’re just…they’re noble creatures. It’s a shame to kill them. Maybe…maybe there’s more to them than the beasts we fought.”

Cassandra made a sound that suggested she didn’t agree at all, but thankfully stayed silent as they approached Frederic’s campsite. “Besides,” Lavellan said hopefully, “maybe our draconoligst friend will have a solution.”

He walked with the others to the lonely little tent, and Frederic looked up from a thick stack of manuscripts. “Oh! You have returned! Marvelous. And…oh, my. Is that what I think it is?” He sounded a little faint.

Lavellan nodded. “Unfortunately, the dragon attacked and we had to kill it. But we, ah…fell into a hole and accidently stumbled upon one of its hatchlings.”

“One of its eggs, actually,” Dorian cut in. “And for some reason, our dear Inquisitor decided to keep it.”

Frederic clapped his hands. “Oh, this is too good to be true! I predicted that she wouldn’t be nesting this time of year, but since you found the egg away from her cave…she must have abandoned it! Oh, what luck! What a stroke of fate!”

“I guess so,” Lavellan muttered.

“May I see it?” Frederic asked with excitement, and Lavellan hesitated before holding it up for Frederic’s examination. The dragon wriggled uneasily as Frederic poked and prodded it. “Oh, this is quite a find, Inquisitor. It’s a female! The female high dragons are the rarest, you know. Very important, since they lay the eggs and such…” He studied one of its tiny horns. “Fire dragon, yes, but the father was something else…there’s no telling what!” Frederic straightened up and if Lavellan could see behind that annoying mask, the man would probably be beaming. “This will be a huge asset to draconology. I’ll learn so much more when I dissect her!”

Lavellan snatched the dragon back. “What?!”

“Dissection? Oh, it’s very standard, you just cut open the belly and head of the –”

“I know what it is!” he snapped. “And you’re not dissecting her.”

“Great,” Dorian said sarcastically. “Now it’s a _her._ ”

“I appreciate your interest, Frederic,” Lavellan continued, “but I’m keeping the dragon with me at Skyhold for as long as possible. You’re welcome to return with us and study her as much as you’d like without harming her, but I won’t allow you to cut her open.”

“Oh,” Frederic said, surprised. “I…see. Well, Inquisitor, that may be a wiser path of study. This way, I can study her at every cycle of life! Oh, yes, that will be much better! I happily accept your offer!”

“Alright, then get packed. We leave at dawn,” Lavellan said.

“Bet you five silvers Vivienne’s gonna throw a fit,” Bull said to Dorian as they returned to their own camp.

Dorian made a face. “ _Everyone_ is going to throw a fit. Except maybe Sera.”

Unfortunately, Lavellan couldn’t argue with that.

*

The dragon, Lavellan quickly discovered, liked to eat. A lot. The entire journey back to Skyhold was spent trying to appease her growing hunger with nugs, birds, fish, rabbits, and whatever else they managed to find. It was only when they crossed the Frostbacks that her appetite began to wane. Frederic surmised it was because of the cold – she was a desert dragon, a fire dragon, and she wasn’t meant to live at such high altitudes.

“Will she be alright?” Lavellan asked worriedly, glancing down at the dragon (which was bundled up in his coat, asleep).

“Just keep her warm; that should do the trick! A fire dragon freezing to death – now that would be most ironic.”

So it was that the dragon went wherever Lavellan did, tucked between layers of clothing and burrowed into his bedroll against his chest. She was still only about the size of a small cat, but she was definitely growing. Her wings had also dried out fully, though they were too small to fly with, and her scales had brightened and sharpened slightly. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to have figured out she could breathe fire yet. Even still, Cassandra kept fretting about making all of Lavellan’s armor fireproof and jumped whenever the dragon so much as sneezed. It put everyone on edge, and Lavellan nearly kissed the drawbridge in relief when they finally arrived back at Skyhold.

Their reception was…interesting.

Cullen and Josephine protested, of course, but Leliana was enchanted by the little creature and immediately volunteered to help set up a place in which to keep her. Vivienne did, in fact, throw a quiet fit, and Sera did, in fact, squeal with glee when she saw her. Blackwall stayed far away from her, Varric made some joke about Hawke adopting her, Cole kept going on about happy dragon thoughts, and Solas gave Lavellan a pat on the back that made him feel rather like a dog.

(Solas just made him feel like a dog most of the time, actually. He practically reeked of condescension.)

Still, it could’ve been worse. In the end, Leliana managed to convince Josephine to let the dragon stay, and Cullen was reluctantly forced to relent. They made the spare room off of Lavellan’s main quarters into a little dragon nest, with blankets fire-proofed by Dorian. If the way she curled up and fell asleep immediately was any indication, the dragon found it satisfactory.

There was much talk of what would be done with her when she started to grow (and grow, and grow), but for now Skyhold was filled with uneasy yet amused talk of the Inquisitor and his new pet. Some couldn’t quite believe it, since most hadn’t seen the little dragon – or their Inquisitor.

A rule had been established soon after Lavellan was named Inquisitor – for a full day after he returned from missions, he was not to be disturbed by business – no war table meetings, no worried advisors, no frantic Revered Mothers, et cetera. His only concession was “if the world is ending,” and so far that hadn’t come to pass. So after the dragon was settled and secured, he practically collapsed into bed, closing his eyes and wondering when he’d become more used to this feather down mattress than his old cot back home.

He’d thought sleep would come quickly for him, but as he lay there he couldn’t seem to clear his mind at all. It had been a year since everything changed, since he’d been ripped from everything he knew and forced into a position of power he’d never particularly wanted. It was hard sometimes, to acknowledge how powerful he really was, yet he was reminded of it almost every day.

The people saw him as their savior, chosen by a prophet of a god he did not even believe in. All too often, the Inquisition, his followers, seemed to forget that – that he was not one of them, would never be one of them, and if not for the mark on his hand he would be invisible to them – or worse. He had grown up in a different world, one without humans, Templars, the Chantry, rebellions, and war. He missed the trees that never ended, the soft grass under bare feet, the sounds of the forest and the sounds of his people, the People, whom he missed so dearly.

Lavellan knew, deep down, that his clan had probably labeled him a traitor. All of his advisors’ attempts to reach his family had failed. If they did not want to be found, they would not be found. They were elves, and there was nothing they were better at than hiding.

But Lavellan couldn’t hide from anyone anymore.

He made a soft, miserable sound and curled around one of his pillows, closing his eyes tightly again. Back home, everyone was close, and Lavellan could scarcely remember a night where he had slept alone. But tonight his bed was cold and his chest was hollow and the room felt terrifyingly empty.

Then there was a low scratching sound and a soft snuffle, and Lavellan sat up immediately, ears pricked and eyes shining in the darkness. His hand strayed to his knife, tucked between mattress and bedframe, searching the shadows for an unfamiliar silhouette or a glint of metal. His eyes narrowed. One of the reasons he’d trained to be an assassin was to fight fire with fire – Leliana had warned him that he would undoubtedly make enemies. So he waited, heart pounding, expecting someone to leap towards him at any moment.

Instead, the scratching started up again, and he realized it was coming from the direction of the spare room. He blinked. A piteous whining sound filled the air, and he remembered the dragon with a jolt of surprise and…guilt? Sighing and sliding out of bed, he padded across the floor and tentatively opened the door.

The dragon stared up at him before quickly darting forward and nuzzling at his ankles, eyes wide and beseeching. She made the sound again, and he knelt down and scratched behind her little ears. “Hey,” he murmured. “I thought you were asleep.”

She rubbed her head against his bare arm and he winced at the slight scrape of scales, the points of her horns scratching and drawing a few beads of blood. He expected her to just keep rubbing, but instead she paused, nostrils flaring and jaws opening, and Lavellan stumbled back as he realized she was scenting blood, following instinct. She was, after all, a cold-blooded carnivore, and it was very possible she saw him as a tasty warm-blooded snack. Perhaps…perhaps Dorian had been right. Baby or no, her teeth were sharp enough to do serious damage to nug flesh, and unfortunately Lavellan doubted elf flesh was much stronger.

Fenedhis, he was going to lose a hand.

But when she opened her mouth, she didn’t lunge, she didn’t bite. She just…licked him. Very, very gently, tongue flickering like a snake’s and rasping like a cat’s.

“What?” he said stupidly. The dragon sat back on her heels and then rolled over onto her stomach, tongue still lolling. “Yes, yes, you’re very cute, but…listen, should I be worried? Are you going to eat me?”

The dragon sneezed equivocally.

Lavellan stood unsteadily, gingerly examining his arm. It was clean and remarkably free of bite marks. He wondered how long it would stay that way. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced. The dragon rolled back onto her stomach, watching him climb into bed. He’d just settled in when the dragon started whining again, scratching at the bedposts and flapping her wings feebly. He grumbled and peered down at her. “What d’you want, dragon?”

She whined despondently, pawing at the bed.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

She tilted her head.

“You’re not kidding.” Lavellan threw up his hands and relented, scooping the dragon up and plopping her down onto the end of the bed. “If you set anything on fire, especially me,” he warned, “you’re going to have a bad time.”

The dragon just cooed happily and toddled over towards the head of the bed. “Oh, no you don’t.” The dragon, dissuaded, continued towards him, nudging his side and curling up against his chest. Lavellan stared at her, because…really? The dragon looked at him sleepily, and…well, she was rather warm. Very warm, like she held a little furnace inside her belly, and he supposed she sort of did. Hopefully not an active furnace, or he was going to wake up very charred and very dead.

But somehow he doubted that would happen.

Carefully, he reached out and ran a hand down her back, where soft beginnings of spines were forming, a formidable suit of armor for one of the most dangerous creatures in Thedas. And said creature was _snuggling_ with him. Lavellan snorted, patting the dragon’s head and closing his eyes. He either had the worst luck, or the best. He just wasn’t sure which yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be when the action really starts up, hope it wasn't too hard to suffer through all the dialogue. I may include some little illustrations if I have the time - lately I just can't stop drawing the dragon.  
> I'll try to update as often as possible, but bear with me if I can't - although rest assured I won't drop this story. enjoy!

Lavellan was rudely awoken by someone cursing in Tevene. He was pretty certain as to whom that someone was, since Krem was the only other Tevinter in Skyhold and he had the decency not to break into other people’s sleeping quarters. Dorian, on the other hand, was one of the most indecent people he knew.

“Vishante kaffas, Lavellan, you idiot, what were you _thinking_ , letting that thing sleep with you –”

Lavellan cracked open an eye. Dorian was closer than he’d expected, and his yelling had awoken the dragon, who stirred and yawned. “Shhhh,” he mumbled.

Dorian stared at him. “Did you just tell me to _shush_?”

“I’m always telling you to shush,” Lavellan grumbled. “It’s strongly implied whenever I speak to you.”

Dorian scowled. “Well, aren’t you snarky in the morning.”

Lavellan flushed and sat up reluctantly; raising an eyebrow at Dorian and staying under the blankets, painfully aware he was only wearing a long nightshirt. “I am when unwelcome visitors wake me up at some ungodly hour.”

“It’s past noon.”

Lavellan sighed. “I suppose I was recovering from having to spend a week in a tent with you.”

Dorian waved a hand. “I’m not apologizing for that. You couldn’t pay me enough to share a tent with the Qunari – he’d probably ravish me in my sleep, and that would definitely wake me up, if you catch my drift.”

Lavellan made a face. “I’ve been awake for less than five minutes, and already someone’s mentioned Bull’s dick. Today is not a good day.” He folded his arms. “Besides, he wouldn’t _ravish_ you, don’t be so dramatic. Maybe cuddle. But he’s surprisingly huggable.”

Dorian gave him a look. “Right. I forgot you actually like to snuggle with dragons and all their distant relatives.”

“Did you just come in here to wake me up and shame me?” Lavellan said testily. 

“No,” Dorian muttered. “As a matter of fact, I brought this.” He held up a glass jug of strange, golden liquid. “It’s food for the dragon; Adan and Frederic crafted it up earlier today. Not nearly as messy as fresh nugs.”

Lavellan blinked. “I thought a servant was supposed to bring that.”

Dorian gave him a mock-bow. “I live to serve, your Inquisitorialness.” 

Lavellan rolled his eyes, though he felt rather smug. “Quite a role-reversal.” Dorian barked out a nervous laugh. “Anyway, just, ah…put it in the dragon’s room, I’ll feed her later. Unlike me, she seems perfectly capable to continue sleeping.”

Dorian did as he asked and returned just as Lavellan was getting out of bed, freezing when he heard the mage’s footsteps. “Can you leave? I should get dressed,” he said.

“You probably should,” Dorian replied. But he showed no signs of leaving. 

“Dorian,” Lavellan said.

“What? I won’t peek. We’re both boys, what’s the harm?” He snickered.

Lavellan glowered at him. “Insubordination,” he warned, but Dorian stayed glued to the spot, grinning cheekily. Lavellan gave up, and rifled through his trunk for some clothes better than those stupid beige pajamas. He settled on a tunic Josephine had given to him several weeks ago – made in a style that was more Dalish than Orlesian, thankfully – and some dark leggings. He regretted choosing the latter as he struggled to get them on, fairly certain that Dorian was silently laughing at him several feet away. They were _tight_ , okay?

When he finally managed to dress himself and turned around, however, Dorian was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking curiously at the dragon. His fingers were twitching by his side as if resisting the urge to touch, while the dragon blinked up at him and chirped. 

“What happened to ‘move before it sets you on fire’?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian swallowed. “I, ah…may have been a bit hasty in my judgment,” he admitted. “She doesn’t seem to have any desire to set you on fire yet.”

Lavellan chuckled. “So far, she’s been about as dangerous as a kitten. But…she is a _morisenatha_ , a high dragon, and I would be a fool to forget that. Perhaps I’m a fool for bringing her here. But I couldn’t…I couldn’t just leave her, or let you…dispose of her. We’d just killed her mother.”

Dorian, for once, didn’t make any clever remarks. He just nodded. “It was brave,” he said. “Maybe foolish, too, but brave.” He paused. “The Ancient Tevinters were hardly role models, but…they worshipped dragons quite passionately. You can hardly piss in Minrathous without hitting a dragon emblem of some sort. So…perhaps they saw something beyond a primitive beast spitting fire and trying to eat everything in its path.”

“That’s all you see in dragons?”

Dorian considered that. “They’re dangerous,” he said. “Then again, I suppose mages are dangerous too, in certain circumstances – as Vivienne _constantly_ reminds us. But I digress…even in powerful, dark magic, there is…a certain kind of beauty. Don’t misunderstand me – I detest blood magic, abominations, and mages who don’t bother to control themselves. But there is something undeniably fascinating about that loss of control, that outburst of energy and power. Perhaps that is what they saw in dragons. Raw, primal force.”

“Is that what you see in this dragon?”

Dorian reached out and touched its forehead, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Not quite, no.”

Lavellan smiled. An oddly comfortable silence stretched between them, until Dorian broke it, clearing his throat. “I ought to get back to the library. Minaeve kept going on and on about a text regarding gurguts? Not exactly choice reading material, but duty calls.”

“You know where the door is,” Lavellan retorted, crossing to the armoire and running a hand through his hair, watching Dorian in the mirror.

“So cold,” the mage laughed.

“Perhaps I’d be more civil later in the day,” Lavellan suggested.

Dorian grinned. “Then I will see you later in the day, Inquisitor, after I’ve learned all there is to know about swamp creatures.”

The door shut with a click, and Lavellan found himself smiling.

*

‘Later’ ended up being in the long hours before dusk, where the castle’s bustling activity seemed to slow as shadows stretched and the sun sank. Lavellan had finally ventured outside, evading the gossipy Orlesians who had gathered in the Great Hall and sneaking up to the battlements, where he walked thoughtfully, looking over Skyhold. The army’s tents alongside the glacier outside were full of life, tiny soldiers like ants scurrying to and fro. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of horses and men, though it was hard to make out over the castle’s own clamor.

More and more people came to Skyhold every day, seeking refuge and hope, and Lavellan wondered when they would run out of room. However, the ancient castle was a labyrinth of undiscovered chambers and passages, (just last month he’d stumbled upon a massive underground vault) so maybe there was more than enough room.  
It was just odd. It had been so empty when they first arrived, after Haven…no one had been here for centuries. And yet, Solas had known about it…

“You look very pensive, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, startling him as he strode out of Cullen’s office and towards Lavellan, who was leaning against the stone, staring out at the mountains. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Lavellan huffed. “Well, _you’re_ certainly not pensive. What’d you do with Commander Cullen? You’re practically beaming.”

Dorian chuckled, standing next to him. “What did I _do_ with him? Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

Lavellan stared at him. “Please tell me you’re not trying to get into his pants.”

“Haven’t you noticed? I’m trying to get into everyone’s pants, according to Vivienne. She’s not exactly wrong, either. But no, Inquisitor – our studly Commander has quite firmly labeled me ‘friend.’ We were just playing chess, and I won _without cheating_.”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “That’s…quite an achievement, then?”

“Huge achievement. Yet another reminder of how incredible I am.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. Wouldn’t want anyone to forget that.”

Dorian grinned. “So, you know what I’ve been up to. How about you? Frolicking with the dragon, speaking to the Maker, taking shits with Andraste herself?”

Lavellan wrinkled his nose. 

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“How is that…nevermind.” Lavellan shook his head. “I don’t know…I made cookies with Sera, had a chat with Varric about some red lyrium mine, and helped Cole find his pet spider.”

Dorian rubbed his temple. “He has…a spider. For a pet. Really? After all the horrifically oversized spiders we’ve encountered?”

“His name is Yellow,” Lavellan replied. “Because the spider is, uh…yellow.”

“Makes sense.”

Lavellan leaned forward and frowned. “I should give the dragon a name, don’t you think?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “If you’re really determined to keep it, then…I suppose continuing to call it ‘the dragon’ would get rather tiresome.”

Lavellan considered that, closing his eyes and remembering all the precious, nearly-lost words he’d been taught as a small child – words from an ancient empire of immortality and magic. Only a word like that could be considered a proper title for a high dragon. They tumbled through his mind until one snagged and caught, and he murmured it aloud with a smile. “Nira,” he said, drawing the syllables out, curling the vowels until it really did sound like another language. “Yes, that’s her name.”

“Nira?” Dorian tilted his head. “Is that Elvhen?”

Lavellan nodded, leaning against the railing. “It means ‘joy.’”

“Why did you choose that name?”

Lavellan bit his lip. “I…it sounds silly, but she makes me happier, I think. And I don’t know…names should mean something good, something positive.” He frowned. “Not like my name.” He shot a sideways glance at Dorian. “My first name is Echo. Sounds sad, doesn’t it? And it’s not even properly Elvhen.”

“Echo,” Dorian murmured. “I like it.” He chuckled. “Dorian means ‘bad weather.’”

Lavellan laughed. “What, really?”

“Yes,” he said. “Rough translation, but yes. Storms, darkness, seas, all of that. Lovely stuff. Perhaps my parents should have taken it as foreshadowing of what was to come.”

Lavellan looked back out at the sweeping expanse of snow and ice. “My sister’s name meant ‘fire.’ Enya.”

Dorian blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Had. She was killed years ago while trying to protect me from some slavers who ventured too far south.”

“Oh,” Dorian murmured. “I…I’m sorry.”

“We were twins,” Lavellan said. “She was a mage, like you. As the name implied, she had a penchant for flames. Managed to take out two of the bastards before they…well.” He took a deep breath. “But that was a long time ago.”

“I see.” Dorian furrowed his brow. 

“She would have liked you,” Lavellan added. Then he turned from the battlements. “I think my free time has ended…Leliana warned me there would be a war table meeting tonight. I should go.”

“You could always take a break,” Dorian proposed, raising an eyebrow hopefully. But Lavellan just sighed and shook his head, stepping away. “Or…not.”

Lavellan paused just before he turned to go. “We’ve received news from Taven, one of the Dalish from the Emerald Graves…the one who was investigating those ruins. Apparently he thinks it’s Din’an Hanin, the tomb of the Emerald Knights.” Dorian looked utterly perplexed, and he continued hurriedly. “Anyway, we’re going to explore the ruins with him, and I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me. Us. The party. The Inquisition.” Lavellan coughed sheepishly. 

“Let me guess…along with Cassandra and Bull?” Lavellan nodded and Dorian smirked. “We’re becoming quite a little clique.”

Lavellan cleared his throat. “I just…ah…it’s an efficient group. Gets the job done.”

“I see. Well…you know the Emerald Graves aren’t my _favorite_ place, and I doubt I’d be welcome in many elvhen ruins, but I’m always up for a challenge. And more complaining.” He winked. “Although…just a suggestion, but perhaps you should bring Solas along too.”

Lavellan narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t particularly excited about the thought of Solas going on and on about how great the ancient elves had been and how badly the Dalish had failed at continuing their _legacy_ or whatever. “Why should I bring him?” Lavellan snapped, harsher than he meant. Okay, so maybe he’d been spending too much time with Sera. 

Dorian shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s…just a feeling, but there might be more dangers than expected, and we can’t exactly rely on supply caches in dusty tombs. Besides, you know I’m rather shit at healing. Or barriers. Or any defensive magic whatsoever.”

“Did you just admit to being bad at something? Give me a moment; I need to write this down.”

“Oh, hush,” Dorian said airily, “I’m still better at it than most mages. But Solas is, admittedly, more experienced in such areas. And the whole place is likely saturated with old elvhen magic, which he is…remarkably knowledgeable about. Plus, he seems to like the dragon – ah, sorry, Nira. I assume she’ll be coming along? Who knows, she might even learn how to breathe fire while we’re there. Now _that_ would be helpful.”

Lavellan sighed resignedly, because Dorian was probably right. “You know he’ll probably start ranting about the lost glory of the elves as soon as he hears her name. And the ranting will just get louder the closer we get to the tomb.”

“Is that such a bad thing? The elves were quite glorious, once upon a time.” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Some of them still are.”

Lavellan flushed. “Right, well, I doubt I qualify. According to Solas, the Dalish are the epitome of that lost glory.” Dorian bit his lip ruefully. “Anyway, fine – I’ll bring him, though I may have to leave Bull behind...but if you really think…”

“It’s up to you, of course,” Dorian replied. “I just…” He smiled tightly. “It would be most unfortunate if some enchanted elvhen assassin attacked the Inquisitor and the only mage around was unable to save him, other than by reanimating his corpse. And I highly doubt a zombie could lead Thedas to victory and seal the Breach.”

“First time for everything,” Lavellan laughed, though there was a somberness in Dorian’s eyes that sobered him and confused him all at once. “Alright. I’ll speak to Solas after the meeting.”

Relief washed over Dorian’s face, so fast Lavellan almost missed it. “Good. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” He paused. “And…as much as he loves to dismiss your people, he respects you, Inquisitor. We all do.” With that, Dorian inclined his head and continued on his way. Lavellan watched him go, his shadow staining the battlements like a long line of ink in his wake.

*

After the meeting, during which Lavellan had cradled Nira in his arms while ignoring Leliana’s smirk and Cullen’s exasperation (Josephine kept getting distracted from missions and cooing over her), Lavellan reluctantly headed over to the mage tower. It wasn’t that he disliked the place – he had nothing against mages, not really – but for some reason he could almost feel all the concentrated magic there, humming in the air and prickling at his skin. Perhaps Nira could sense it too, for she shifted against his chest and her little claws dug anxiously into his sleeve. 

Solas’s chamber would have been austere if not for the vibrant murals that bloomed upon the walls, some half-finished, others completed long ago, all of them cryptically beautiful. Lavellan had to pause for a moment to admire them, gaze settling on one of the newest additions. A huge wolf, jaws open, stood over the body of a dragon, impaled by a sword. It was barely stenciled in, but Solas had clearly spent a lot of time on it. Odd.

“Can I help you, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan startled as Solas emerged from his reading nook, hands clasped politely. “Oh! I, ah, yes, actually.” He cleared his throat. “I was…wondering if you would want to journey to Din’an Hanin with myself, Cassandra and Dorian.” 

Solas’s brow furrowed, and he actually looked nonplussed for once. “You…want me to join your party? And go to an elvhen ruin, no less?”

Lavellan gritted his teeth. “Yes. It would be useful to have a support mage along, especially one as knowledgeable as yourself.”

Solas hesitated, then nodded to Nira. “Will you be taking your new companion as well?”

“Yes,” Lavellan said. “Her name is Nira,” he added, and Solas’s eyes softened slightly.

“A good name,” he murmured. “Far better than Abelas.”

Lavellan blinked. “What? Why…why would I name her ‘sorrow’?”

“Ah, just an idle thought, Inquisitor,” Solas replied. He stepped forward, and Lavellan felt that crackle of magic again – he realized with a jolt that it was _Solas_ creating that energy, not the mage tower, not Dorian, not Vivienne. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It was like standing in front of an open rift. _Raw, primal force._ He shivered. 

Solas tilted his head. “Something wrong?” He sounded strangely…apprehensive. 

“I…you just…” Lavellan stammered and shook his head. “It’s nothing. So, will you accept the offer?”

Solas smiled serenely. “It would be an honor, Inquisitor.” He looked back down at Nira. “Inquisitor…I must ask – do you consider this dragon some kind of exotic pet, or something…more?”

Lavellan frowned. “Exotic pet? She is a morisenatha, not a halla.” He held Nira tighter. “I did not choose to save her to amuse myself, if that’s what you’re suggesting. She is a creature of power to be respected.”

“Not unlike yourself, Inquisitor.” Solas’s head remained tilted, and Lavellan was not sure if the words were mocking or genuine. It was hard to tell with Solas. “In any case, I believe you made the right choice in sparing her life. That empathy of yours is not a weakness, but rather a great strength. You will never be remembered as a tyrant, which is more than can be said of most elvhen leaders.” He sighed and went to his desk. “Thank you for the unexpected visit, Lavellan. I look forward to traveling to the Emerald Graves with you.”

*

Later that night, Lavellan sat in the tavern with Dorian and Sera, halfheartedly nursing some cider. Dorian nudged his shoulder. “Hellooo? Did you hear anything that I just said?”

Lavellan turned to Dorian. “I got Solas to come with us to the tomb,” he said distractedly.

Dorian grinned. “Oh! Excellent. A Seeker, a Tevinter, and an easily annoyed elf – sounds like a winning combination to me.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “Dorian…have you noticed anything strange about Solas?”

Dorian rolled his eyes, setting his drink down. “Strange is the first word that comes to mind when you say his name. He’s incredibly mysterious, which as Blackwall proved, is not always a good thing…he always wears that disgusting necklace, and don’t even get me started on the way he always smells like –”

“No, no, not all that,” Lavellan said impatiently, “his magic. Don’t you think he has kind of a strange, uh…aura? Like…like too much static in the air or the power lyrium gives off or something?”

Dorian gave him an odd look. “How much have you had to drink? Figures you’d be a lightweight.”

“Nevermind,” Lavellan grumbled. He was _not_ a lightweight, thank you very much. He took a violent swig of cider and definitely didn’t cough at all. Nope.

“Wait, yeah, yeah, I know what you’re talkin’ about!” Sera exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically. “Friggen creepy, it is! Sets your teeth on edge and everything. Weird.” She bounced in her seat. “Know what it feels like? Feels like those piss-tossing fade rifts! No thanks, nuh-uh.” Sera downed the rest of her drink and jumped up. “Hey! Another over here, yeah?” One of the barmaids, Flissa, looked up with a blush and hurried to comply. Sera smirked and leaned back. 

Lavellan eyed her, puzzled. Sera wasn’t a mage, and as far as he knew, she had no mage blood. But…but she _was_ an elf. And Dorian, for all his magical talents, was most definitely not.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it feels exactly like that. What do you think it could be?” He paused. “Sera?”

But she was halfway across the room already, throwing an arm about Flissa’s shoulders and belching.

Dorian shook his head. “Oh, dear. She needs some lessons in subtlety.”

“I’m not sure you’re the best example of that, Sparkler.” Varric sidled up to their table, a glint in his eye. “Hey, Freckles. I’m surprised you’re not toting around Sparkler 2.0.” Dorian scowled at him, and Varric shrugged innocently. “What? It’s a working title.”

“She’s asleep,” he muttered. “I may join her…it’s getting too loud in here.” Just as he said it, one of Bull’s Chargers threw a chair at one of the dartboards, prompting a raucous round of applause and a smashed glass. Lavellan winced. Sera and Bull roared with laughter. 

“Don’t blame you,” Varric replied, sitting down next to him. “But, uh…Bianca gave me some more news about the red lyrium operation. You’re planning on going back to the Emerald Graves, right?” Lavellan nodded. “Be careful, Freckles. She said her contacts reported lyrium smugglers going in and out of that area nonstop for the past few days – something big is going down there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it involved Red Templars. Maybe even Samson himself.”

Lavellan made a face. He really, really didn’t like red lyrium. Or Red Templars. Honestly, the color red was just ruined for him by now. “Oh, great. Not the best news, but…thanks for the heads-up, Varric.”

“Anytime, Freckles. Oh, and…you didn’t hear it from me, but there’s a tiny cave with some pretty flowers by the Direstone Camp. Try jumping on top of it for a while; see what happens.” Varric winked, chuckling at his bemused expression. “You can thank me later.” 

“The plot thickens,” Dorian said as Varric left. “Sounds like this is going to be a very eventful journey, don’t you think? Red lyrium, baby dragons, tiny caves, ancient elves – now, that’s my idea of fun!”

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Lavellan said. It was shaping up to be a very long week.

“You’re not drunk at all, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian pointed out gently. Unfortunately, he was right.

Lavellan picked up his cider. “Was that a challenge?”

Dorian grinned. “Just don’t blame me in the morning.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Next chapter is probably gonna be even longer than this one (oops) so it may take awhile.
> 
> (yep, the little doodle at the beginning is some of the art I was talking about. if you guys like it, i may put some real illustrations into this story?? maybe. anyway, there's a silly sketch.)

“Why did I do this to myself?” Lavellan groaned for at least the fifth time that morning. He rubbed his head and glared at Dorian. “I blame you.”

Dorian snickered, swinging himself up onto his horse and tossing Lavellan a bottle of…something. “Try that, it might help. Maker, have you never had a hangover before?”

“Not as bad as this,” he muttered. Cassandra, atop her own mount, made an exasperated and rather judgmental noise. Solas, atop his regal hart, was pointedly ignoring them. Lavellan wondered if he’d ever gotten drunk, and found it rather impossible to imagine. Impossible, yet hysterical.

Lavellan’s dracolisk, Emily, snorted critically as he struggled to heave himself up into the saddle without barfing. “Oh, shush,” he told her. Emily tossed her head. Once he was settled, Lavellan uncapped the bottle and took a cautious swig, instant relief washing through him. He blinked at Dorian. “Wow,” he said. “Oh, wow.”

Dorian smirked. “You’re welcome. Go on, keep it – you drank more than I did, which is an accomplishment in itself.”

“Certainly not one to be proud of,” Cassandra muttered. “Oh, look. Josephine has the dragon.” She sighed disapprovingly, but sounded resigned to her fate.

Sure enough, Josephine came down the castle steps with Nira bundled up in her arms like a particularly scaly infant, a few servants trailing her and carrying various bottles of ‘food.’ She smiled up at Lavellan, handing the squirming dragon over. “Oh, do take care of her, Inquisitor! She is such a delightful little treasure – and it’s so exciting to meet a dragon that doesn’t want to kill everything, don’t you think?”

Lavellan laughed, nodding and carefully taking Nira from her. Then he paused, eyes falling open the intricate leather collar around Nira’s neck, filigreed with silverite and volcanic aurum, the letters of her name and the symbol of the Inquisition forming the complex latch. He frowned. “What’s this?”

Josephine’s smile grew. “Oh! Dagna and Harritt had it made just for her! Isn’t it charming?”

Lavellan bit his lip, and then unlatched the collar gingerly, holding it out to her. “It’s beautiful, but I will not have my dragon collared like a mabari. She is…she is more than that.” Josephine took it, confused and a little hurt.

Solas spoke up. “What our Inquisitor is trying to say, I believe, is that the gesture is appreciated but he considers Nira more of a companion and protector rather than a pet.”

“Oh!” Josephine looked down at the collar. “I see. Well, I suppose…” She smiled. “Perhaps when you return, Inquisitor, we could have armor made for her, if that would be more to your liking?”

“Perhaps,” Lavellan agreed, shooting Solas a grateful look. “Thank you, Josephine.”

“Have a wonderful journey!”

It was a nice sentiment, but Lavellan seriously doubted it was going to be wonderful, especially when Emily realized there was a tiny dragon clinging to her back and promptly tried to throw them both off.

They were not off to a good start.

*

After they’d crossed the Frostbacks, Lavellan had hoped the going would be easier, but the treacherous mountain pass dumped them right into Emprise du Lion – which was definitely not an improvement. Solas and Cassandra were certainly warm enough – Solas had his weird furs and Cassandra had her heavily padded armor – but Dorian had apparently missed the memo about cold temperatures and had chosen to wear that ridiculous off-the-shoulder leather armor. Lavellan’s thin rogue armor wasn’t doing much, either – it was only thanks to Nira that he didn’t freeze.

Unfortunately, Dorian didn’t have a personal dragon heater, and he reminded the entire party of that fact incessantly. Lavellan was about ready to throw him into one of the many nearby frozen lakes by the time they reached Sahrnia Quarry.

“Why don’t you just cast a spell to warm yourself up?” Lavellan suggested. “That can’t be too difficult, right?”

“Not difficult to cast, but difficult to sustain for hours on end, yes!” Dorian snapped. “Besides, there’s always the off-chance that I make it too warm and set myself on fire, which would be a shame.”

“Would it?” Cassandra mused. Solas chuckled.

Nira tried to climb off the saddle for the umpteenth time, whining in frustration when Lavellan gently redirected her. Their mounts were getting tired, plodding through the endless snow with quickly waning enthusiasm. Lavellan searched the vast expanse of white for a familiar landmark, finally picking out the shape of a bridge in the distance. “Cassandra, do you know if there’s a camp near there?” he asked, pointing it out to her.

She looked thoughtful. “I believe that must be Judicael’s Crossing – some of our soldiers repaired the bridge weeks ago. It’s likely they established a camp on the other side…”

“Well, I’m in,” Dorian interrupted, spurring his horse into a trot. “I don’t know how much more of this icy nightmare I can take.”

Solas was gazing up at the sky, brow furrowed. “There are dark clouds gathering, Inquisitor. A storm on the way, no doubt.” He nodded towards the bridge. “It would be best to take shelter.”

“Alright, then,” Lavellan decided, snapping the reins. “Fingers crossed.”

The four of them rode to the Crossing, which was indeed marked by Inquisition banners. Strangely, there were no soldiers in sight, but that wasn’t exactly unheard of – especially if Leliana had sent people here. They wouldn’t be wandering about in plain view. That was what he told himself, anyway.

Hooves clattered dully on stone as they made their way across, Dorian peering nervously down into the forbidding frozen river below. Normally, Lavellan would have teased him about it, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to make jokes. The farther they went, the warier he got, especially when there was still no camp or people to be found on the opposite side.

Cassandra frowned. “This is odd. They should be here.”

A nearby structure caught Lavellan’s eye, almost hidden by massive snowdrifts and trees blocking the way – a sort of ruined colosseum. “Over there,” he said. “That would be a good place to make a camp, don’t you think?”

“It certainly looks more sheltered,” Cassandra agreed.

Solas seemed uneasy, but followed them up the meandering path, which was lined with crumbling statues. Lavellan wondered if they were elvhen, like so many of the ruins here. For a moment, he understood Solas’s bitterness – how had elves gone from magnificent edifices like these to a collection of aravels in the woods?

The path led up into the colosseum itself, shadows falling upon them as they entered an arched passage. It was impossible to miss the small nodes of red lyrium clinging to the walls, which they gave a wide berth. Cassandra smashed a particularly nasty looking one with her shield as they passed it, which Varric probably would have approved of. Varric probably would have also insisted they find a different place to camp out, but exhaustion was gathering heavily in Lavellan’s limbs and his headache was quickly returning – he could really care less about the ominous mineral.

But as they scaled the short climb and stood inside the colosseum’s heart, Lavellan quickly changed his mind.

“Well, shit,” he said faintly, staring at the dragon sleeping there, its huge body rumbling with snores. “Looks like we missed one.”

“We should probably…go,” Dorian whispered.

“Right behind you,” Lavellan said, backing up the petrified dracolisk as quietly as possible. The dragon didn’t stir…until Nira clambered up onto Emily’s head and let out a joyful shriek.

The dragon's eyes opened.

Cassandra’s horse reared and whinnied in terror, and she barely managed to stop it from bolting, but the damage had already been done. The dragon snarled and got to its feet, wings beating the air and jaws opening. Fire glowed in its throat, aimed straight at Lavellan – he felt two barriers cast upon him at once, but knew they wouldn’t be enough – and there was no way to dodge the blow. He braced himself.

Then Nira shrieked again and the dragon’s roar cut off abruptly. It took a step back, lowering its head and growling deeply. “What’s she doing?!” Cassandra hissed, panicked. “Inquisitor, it’s going to attack!”

Lavellan tried to grab Nira, but she leapt off the dracolisk and wandered up to the high dragon, completely oblivious to the murderous gleam in the creature’s eyes. Lavellan cursed, fear filling him. He hadn’t saved her only for her to be sent to an even worse death. “No, no – Nira, come back, please –”

Nira sat down several meters from the dragon, and cocked her head. The dragon’s growl tapered off. It took another step back, head swinging from Nira to the stunned intruders. It pawed at the ground, uncertain, wings held out on either side, tense and quivering. Lavellan furrowed his brow. It wasn’t an attack stance. It was…defensive. But why…?

“Behind her,” Solas murmured, and Lavellan looked – and understood. Tucked into a large nook in the rocks near the dragon’s tail was a haphazard cluster of large, mottled blue eggs. This wasn’t just the dragon’s territory – it was her nest, and she was protecting it. She was reluctant to start a fight because it might put her eggs at risk – and perhaps because she understood Nira was a hatchling not unlike her future offspring.

“Nira,” Lavellan called again, softer, imploring, and the baby dragon turned and flapped her wings clumsily but eagerly, bounding back to him through the snow. She clambered up his leg and plopped down in his lap, eyes still lifted to the vigilant mother dragon.

It regarded them suspiciously, pacing in front of the nest and thumping its tail against the ground in warning. But no fire glowed in its throat, and it didn’t lunge when they started to leave carefully, not daring to turn their back on it until they were halfway down the passageway. As soon as they were, they fled for their lives, swearing colorfully the whole way.

*

Once they’d finally found refuge in Suledin Keep, the four of them sat around one of many campfires, watching the baby dragon who had saved their asses roll around happily in her pile of blankets. Cassandra took a shaky gulp of ale. “If not for your dragon, Inquisitor, we would likely be dead.”

“Probably,” Lavellan replied, loosening his armor and setting the breastplate aside with a sigh.

“But…why?” Dorian said, head in his hands, bemused. “And how? It was like she…communicated with it.”

Solas sniffed. “You think dragons so savage that they have no form of language? Of course she communicated with it. Even if she did not, it is likely the adult dragon had some sort of maternal instinct, and thus felt conflicted about killing what is practically a newborn.”

Cassandra scowled. “But dragons _are_ savage, Solas. They are little more than mindless beasts!”

“Was it a mindless act to protect the creature she considers her mother?” Solas asked mildly, and Lavellan’s ears grew hot.

“I’m not her mother!” he exclaimed, embarrassed. “I’m just…just…”

“Her real mother abandoned her, according to Frederic,” Dorian added. “And you were the first thing she saw after she hatched…”

“You were there too!” Lavellan reminded him.

“Yes, but I was about to kill her,” Dorian muttered. “ _You_ were the one protecting her. Perhaps she actually understood that, on some level.”

Solas nodded. “It’s very possible she’s imprinted on you. That would explain why she’s so docile, comparatively. She recognized her own kind, as we saw today…but she genuinely thinks you’re her parent.”

Lavellan closed his mouth, then opened it. “Is that…healthy?”

“For a high dragon to believe its mother is a male elf? Probably not,” Dorian snickered.

Solas rolled his eyes. “It could be a great asset, actually. It means she’ll be quite loyal to you – and when she gets larger, stronger, and overall more dangerous…you may just be the most heavily guarded Inquisitor in history.”

Lavellan looked back at Nira, who was lying on her back, kicking at the air and puffing little smoke rings. A few soldiers had gathered in silent wonder, none of them daring to come too close. “I almost wish I’d gotten her sooner,” he said. “Maybe we wouldn’t have had to kill all those dragons after all.”

“They weren’t all mothers protecting their young,” Dorian muttered. “For example, I think the Abyssal High Dragon was just completely crazy.” Nira squealed and started attacking a large felandaris beetle that had climbed unwittingly into her domain. It met a swift demise in her tiny mouth. “Let’s hope that trait doesn’t run in the family.”

“Speaking of which,” Lavellan said, “we know who the mother is…but not the father. She was a fire dragon…but Frederic sounded like he didn’t think the father was.”

Cassandra made a thoughtful sound. “You know…the golden coloration does remind me of one of the Pentaghast trophies back in Nevarra.” At their confused looks, she made a face and explained. “The prolific hunters in my family liked to display the heads of all the dragons they killed. I always thought it barbaric, but they were very proud of such things.”

“So, what trophy does it remind you of?”

She shook her head, frustrated. “It was a dragon with golden spots and eyes like this one, but I do not recall the type of dragon. Not fire, though…and likely not ice, either.”

“Electricity, then?” Dorian prompted.

She shook her head. “I do not remember.”

“Curious,” was all Solas said.

Lavellan watched him with narrowed eyes. Yes. Very curious indeed. The energy he’d felt from Solas before was more muted now, but it was definitely still there. And he still wondered what the older elf had meant when he’d mentioned the name Abelas…Lavellan had never heard of anyone called that. Then again, Solas seemed to know far more about elves and their history than Lavellan (much to his chagrin). At least Solas actually was an elf, unlike Morrigan – whose lofty claim of being an elf expert still bothered him.

“Are you alright?” Lavellan was abruptly jerked out of his thoughts; relaxing when he saw it was just Dorian. Cassandra and Solas had retreated to their tent, as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. The sky darkened to a twilit indigo, the storm clouds rolling in faster now. Nira burrowed deeper into her blankets and watched the two of them owlishly.

“Oh.” Lavellan stood and blinked at him, confused. “Yes, I’m alright. You?”

Dorian laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “Ha! Alright is not the precise word I would use. But at least our day wasn’t boring.”

Lavellan managed a smile. “What, don’t you miss your stuffy old library back at Skyhold?”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t miss all the bird shit, I can tell you that. Honestly, someone needs to speak to Leliana about controlling her ravens.” Dorian gave Lavellan a pointed look.

“Well, I suppose in between saving thousands of innocents and defeating Corypheus, I could make time to complain about bird shit to the scariest person in the Inquisition,” Lavellan told him.

Dorian grinned. “I knew I could count on you. And you’ve got it all wrong – _you’re_ the scariest person in the Inquisition, not Leliana.”

“What?” Lavellan said incredulously. “Me? I’m not scary!”

Dorian put a hand to his heart. “The mighty Inquisitor, a savage Dalish elf with the mark of the rift and all of Thedas in the palm of his hand! He’s a merciless assassin, lurking in the shadows, siding with the rebel mages and speaking heretical words –”

Lavellan scowled. “I’m an _elf_ – of course I don’t believe in the Maker! We have our own gods –”

Dorian’s eyes widened and he put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh – the Chantry might hear you! Next thing you know, you’ll be electing the Nightingale as the new Divine!”

“I was seriously considering it,” Lavellan replied. “I think she’s an excellent candidate.”

Dorian clutched at his chest. “Oh, Andraste have mercy!”

“You’re ridiculous.” Lavellan paused. “And your Orlesian accent is terrible.”

“You’re right, their accent _is_ terrible.”

Lavellan snorted and then looked down, frowning. “Do you…really think people see me like that? I mean…when we were at the Winter Palace, I can’t even tell you how many times I got mistaken for a servant. Or called ‘rabbit.’” He folded his arms. “It’s not that I mind it too much…it could be so much worse.” He glanced at Dorian, who winced knowingly. “But…so much has happened since then. I’ve…I’ve tried to be a good leader. I tried to make all the right decisions.” He sucked in a breath and shook his head. “I never wanted this, you know. I never wanted people to worship me, or follow me, or fear me, or whatever it is that they do.” He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers until the mark crackled to life. “It was all just…a mistake.”

Dorian touched his shoulder, intended to be comforting, and Lavellan jumped a little. Dorian immediately drew back with an apology on the tip of his tongue, and Lavellan wanted to tell him that it wasn’t what he thought; it wasn’t that he didn’t want Dorian to touch him – it was that he _did_. And that scared him. A beat of uncomfortable silence passed.

Then Dorian said quietly, “For the record, you’re one of the best people I know. And one of the few friends I have. I don’t believe this was all a mistake – and if it was, then it was a very lucky one. Any random tyrant-in-the-making could’ve been given that mark, but it was you. And you, Echo Lavellan, are about as far from a tyrant as one could possibly be. Trust me; I’ve met more than enough. You aren’t one of them.”

Lavellan turned towards him, chest tight. “I’m trying,” he whispered. “Fenedhis, I’m trying.”

“I know,” Dorian said. “And that’s all anyone could ever ask of you.”

They were very close. Lavellan could practically count his eyelashes; feel the tickle of his breath and the warmth of his skin. It would be so easy to lean forward, to close the distance between them. Lavellan’s eyes flicked away from Dorian’s, falling upon his lips, and Dorian made a soft sound of what could have been assent and –

Nira’s claws snagged on Lavellan’s boot and he yelped, scrambling away and nearly falling off the bench. Dorian laughed, too loud and fake, ducking his head as Lavellan glared at the dragon and tried to pick her up, struggling a little. “She’s definitely getting bigger,” he grumbled, trying to ignore the thought of what had almost happened. “Ugh, why are you so heavy?” Nira tried to balance on his legs, now more like a good-sized puppy than a small cat. Lavellan shook his head and carefully removed her before she broke his kneecap or something.

“Well, it seems that Adan and Frederic’s concoction is working,” Dorian said lightly. “Hm, how long do you think it’ll take before she gets to be as large as her mother? Maybe even larger…”

Lavellan wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that. “I guess only time will tell,” he said wearily. He just hoped that Nira’s tameness continued throughout her inevitable growth spurt. A ten foot tall dragon could do a lot more damage than a two foot tall one.

Nira nuzzled up against his side just as the first snowflakes began to fall, melting with cold stings on Lavellan’s nose and cheeks, a few catching on his lips and lashes. It was strange, how silent snowstorms could be, yet as they sat there in the swirling whiteness the snowdrifts began to pile up anew and the tents bowed under the fresh weight and the campfire sputtered to cinders. There was power in that silence.

Dorian looked up at the sky with what could almost be called a smile.

“I thought you hated the snow?” Lavellan asked, surprised.

Dorian shrugged noncommittally, catching a flake on his fingertip. “Perhaps we should retire before we’re buried alive?” Nira sneezed in agreement.

Lavellan nodded and followed him to the tent, the deep prints of a human, an elf and a dragon left in their wake.

*

The rest of the journey fell into a strangely comfortable rhythm.

A year ago, Lavellan never would’ve believed it if someone had told him he’d get used to waking up cuddling a dragon with a Tevinter mage next to him, but clearly his life was full of surprises and he really just ought to get used to it. Besides, it wasn’t a bad thing – it was much better than lying awake in his Skyhold chambers and feeling sorry for himself.

And despite Lavellan’s previous complaints, Dorian was actually a far better tent mate than Bull – he didn’t snore for one thing, thank the Creators. (Nira was another story.) For another thing, he always smelled unfairly good. It was probably due to the horrifying amount of oil he put in his hair, but Lavellan definitely preferred it to sweaty Qunari (sweaty “Grey Warden” was even worse, as he’d discovered the first and only time he’d shared a tent with Blackwall). And lastly…sometimes, in the uneasy minutes before sleep, Dorian talked to him.

It had surprised Lavellan, at first…and then not so much. Dorian loved to hear his own voice, true, but it was more than that. He talked about things others would have called silly – the stars, the different songs of different birds, the view of the Dales from the top of the last glacier before the icy ground became lush grass. Dorian would go on and on and often Lavellan fell asleep to the sound of his voice. After collapsing into his cot every night after evading the growing number of Red Templars and thuggish Freemen, along with the added challenge of bears, rifts, wolves, and even giants; those stories felt like much-needed lullabies. Lavellan wanted to tell Dorian that – wanted to thank him – but didn’t know quite how. It was frustrating.

Nira continued to grow faster than any of them would have thought possible – it was gradual at first, and then one day Lavellan woke up and realized she was nearly as large as an adult mabari. Her playful immaturity continued, but it was impossible to ignore how much she’d changed already. Nira’s wings, once tiny and useless, had begun to grow to fit her body, promising a future wingspan as wide as she was long. The small spines along her back sharpened and hardened, and her little horns curled and lengthened along with the jagged edges of her jaw. Her claws curved to wicked points and her teeth were bigger than ever. In other words, she began to look less cute and more…deadly.

By the time they’d reached the Emerald Graves, the bottles of ‘food’ Josephine had packed for her were all but useless. She’d taken to running alongside Lavellan’s dracolisk as they traveled, since she was obviously too big to carry anymore, and whenever they stopped for a break she would hunt nearby. Luckily, there was a plentiful supply of nugs and August Rams, and she would find them again once she’d eaten her fill.

Nira became quite lithe from the constant running, but Lavellan worried about her wings – did she know how to fly? Could she? Having never had wings himself, Lavellan wasn’t really sure how to go about teaching her. Did mother dragons teach their young how to fly, or did they just sort of…push them off of high places?  
He was not willing to test that.

Dorian joked that perhaps he should return to Emprise du Lion to ask the mother dragon there, to which everyone vehemently disagreed. Lavellan highly doubted that dragon would let them go free a second time – it was still hard to believe she’d let them go at all. Bull was going to be so pissed that they didn’t bring him along. Then again, he probably would’ve tried to kill the dragon himself and ruined the whole thing.

They met Scout Harding at the camp near the Rush of Sighs, which had been freshly cleared of its troublesome giants. She greeted them enthusiastically, pausing when Nira bounded into view. “Well,” she said in a high, slightly strained voice, “the rumors are true, then! Although they described her as…smaller.” She cleared her throat. “Uh…pleased to meet you, dragon.”

“Nira,” Lavellan supplied, and she gave him a quizzical look.

“Nira. Right.” Harding cast the dragon one last cautious glance before leading them to the requisitions table, pulling some papers out carefully. “So, you’re here for the Knights’ Tomb. Strange, the Dalish scouts went out there a few hours ago, but we haven’t heard back. Could be that they just went on ahead inside, but…”

“Be careful. Got it,” Lavellan said.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, especially with your new backup,” she conceded. “Anyway, we’ve had more reports of Red Templar activity, which is…not good.”

“Any sign of Samson or other officers?”

Harding shook her head. “After you took care of Duhaime and Maliphant, things quieted down. Fairbanks still has a decent hold on the area, along with our support, but I bet some of ‘em are lurking on the outskirts.”

“Thanks for the heads up. Anything else?”

“Bring some torches, or Dorian. It’s gonna be dark and deep. Nobody’s been down there for centuries.”

Dorian spluttered. “Did you just equate me to a torch, Harding?!”

“A very charming torch?” she tried.

He huffed. “Better.”

Harding turned back to Lavellan. “So, are you checking it out now, or would you rather rest up and play some Wicked Grace?”

Dorian gave him a pleading look, which Lavellan ignored (to Solas and Cassandra’s relief).

“Rain check on that – we should see what’s going on with the Dalish patrol now,” Lavellan said firmly, turning to look across the river and into the dense trees. “Somehow, I doubt they’re just running late.”

Harding gave a little salute. “I’ll be waiting for that game, Lavellan. Don’t let me down.”

“Not a chance,” he promised.

Nira stared into the looming forest and shivered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more art, more action - get ready for next chapter. I'm raising the rating from mature to explicit. probably. 
> 
> thanks to those of you who are still reading this - it means a lot.

The silence was stifling as they approached the ruins, and as soon as Lavellan saw the smashed aravel he knew something was terribly wrong. The birds had stopped singing, and all of them held their weapons at the ready, edging closer to the imposing doors and the crumbling walls. Nira stalked forward, jaws opening in a snarl.

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian whispered as the small clearing came fully into view, and with it a scene of carnage that stank of death. Around ten Dalish laid dead, some badly burned and others bloodied and broken, some both. Lavellan stepped forward shakily, barely recognizing Taven where he had fallen – his head had been nearly sliced from his body, staining the grass red all around him, sightless eyes full of eternal terror. Lavellan swallowed back the bile in his throat.

“Most of them were unarmed,” Cassandra said quietly, raising a hand to her brow and shaking her head. “They were slaughtered. Who could have done this?”

Solas froze, ice snapping at his fingertips. “We are not alone,” he warned.

Not a moment after he’d spoken, a figure leapt down from the ivy-covered ramparts, a female elf with ginger hair and two bloodied daggers on her back. Immediately, Lavellan went into a defensive stance, snarling and yanking his knife from his belt. “Who are you?!” He was in no mood for manners, not with half a clan dead at his feet.

She blinked and folded her arms casually. “Name’s Tallis. And before you ask, no, I didn’t make this mess. I would never be so sloppy.” She looked down at Nira, quickly masking her surprise. “Uh, nice dragon.” Nira growled.

Cassandra let out a very uncharacteristic gasp. “T-Tallis?! As in, the Qunari assassin who traveled with the Champion to Chateau Haine?”

Tallis blinked. “Well. Someone’s been telling tales about me.” Her eyes flicked over them, lingering on the Inquisition emblems on their armor. “I’m guessing it was Varric, which means you must be Cassandra Pentaghast. And you’re Inquisitor Lavellan. Pleasure.”

Lavellan didn’t lower his weapon, and Nira didn’t stop growling. “The fact that you’re an assassin is not helping your case.”

Tallis raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Look at the pot calling the kettle black, Inquisitor. And assassin isn’t really the correct term anyway. Listen, believe what you want, but I had no reason to kill them. The ones who did kill them didn’t have much reason to either, but I didn’t get the impression that they were very reasonable.”

“You saw them? Who did it?” Lavellan demanded.

“More like what.” She bit her lip. “They were Templars, I think, but…wrong. Red lyrium everywhere.” She paused at their peeved expressions. “Oh, great…you totally know what I’m talking about.”

“Red Templars,” Dorian muttered. “Not surprising, but also not the way I wanted to spend my afternoon.” He sighed. “And now we’re supposed to rely on the word of some Qunari assassin? Lovely!”

Tallis frowned. “You’re a Tevinter.”

“Oh, really? I had no idea!” Dorian exclaimed. “I would’ve thought the dashing appearance gave it away already.”

“I was born in Tevinter,” she said flatly. “Needless to say, I don’t have fond memories of it there.”

“Oh,” Dorian said. “I’m…sorry?”

“Just don’t make it awkward and I won’t have to use this on you,” she said lightly, holding up a strange gray collar that appeared to lock shut.

Dorian blanched. Nira’s growl grew louder. Solas stepped forward, fascinated. “A Qunari mage collar?” He tilted his head. “Why did you bring such a thing with you?”

Tallis shifted, tucking the collar away again. “Just…precautions.”

“Why are you here in the first place?” Cassandra asked, still a little shell-shocked. “Varric said you lost contact with the Champion, that nobody knew where you were –”

“I’m Ben-Hassrath, of course nobody knew where I was,” Tallis grumbled. “That’s kind of the point.”

“Answer the question,” Lavellan said. “Why are you here?”

“I’m an explorer, same as you.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Varric described you as more of a thief.”

“Alright, alright, so I’m looking for something in the ruins. Someone, actually.”

Lavellan looked at her coolly. “Who?”

“A Saarebas,” Tallis said. “She escaped.”

“I wonder why,” Dorian muttered.

Lavellan eyed her carefully. “That’s your only reason for coming here?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Fine,” Lavellan said. “You help us find what we want, and we’ll help you.”

Dorian glared at him. “Oh, no. No, I never agreed to help recapture an innocent mage and doom them to a life of what is practically slavery!”

“Innocent?” Tallis snapped. “She killed her Arvaarad and at least three others. Who knows how much more destruction she’s caused –”

There was an ominous rumbling from the ruins, and Lavellan strode forward to the massive door, Nira following him hesitantly. “Our soldiers might still be in there – and the Red Templars definitely are. Are you going to continue arguing, or actually make yourselves useful?”

“I’m with you, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said. Solas nodded, though he didn’t look happy about it.

Dorian made an exasperated noise. “You know I’m with you, I just really don’t think –”

“Less talking, more helping,” Lavellan said, heaving his weight against the door. It opened with a low groan, dust motes rising. Nira stalked forward, haunches raised. Lavellan patted her on the head. “Don’t worry, you can maul those monsters soon enough.”

“I like him,” Tallis remarked.

Dorian glowered.

*

It wasn’t any better inside the tomb. They were greeted by a similar scene of death – an entire Inquisition patrol had been slaughtered just like the Dalish. Tallis whistled. “Remind me not to piss off these guys,” she said.

“Too late,” Lavellan countered, nodding at the next section of courtyard, where the sounds of armor clanking and soldiers speaking could be heard. He climbed up one half-ruined wall, creeping along the top of it as he took his bow, Fen, in hand. The finely-made weapon hummed with excitement, the corruption rune coming to life under his fingertips as he notched an arrow into it carefully and took aim. Lavellan might not have been as fast as Sera or as fierce as Varric, but he was very, very patient. His lips curled as he let the arrow fly, singing through the air with deadly grace.

It found its mark in the throat of the nearest Venatori, silencing him with a gurgle before he could so much as cast a barrier. The rest of the party burst from their hiding place behind the rubble, Cassandra with an unrestrained cry, Solas with a burst of blue, Dorian with a cleverly-placed fire trap, Nira with snapping jaws, and Tallis with…well, Lavellan actually had no idea what move she pulled, only that it ended in three Templars meeting a very bloody end.

In between arrows, he dodged a particularly persistent Venatori’s ice spells, nearly tripping over a sharp stalagmite and sending a dagger flying into the mage’s chest in retaliation. Lavellan had to pause for a moment to admire his excellent aim.

Three arrows, one walking bomb, two fade steps, and a dragon bite later, every last one lay dead. Lavellan couldn’t help but feel a sense of justice as he jumped down and landed heavily amongst the corpses. “May the Dread Wolf take you,” he said scornfully, nudging the captain’s body with his boot. Nira scampered over to him happily, her muzzle stained with blood. He winced. At least she hadn’t eaten them.

“There’s likely to be more,” Cassandra said warily, not yet sheathing her sword. Nira’s ears pricked as if on cue, head swinging around.

“Over there,” Tallis muttered. “What the…?”

A lumbering Behemoth was coming down the stairs towards them, swinging one of its clublike arms and splintering the stones. “Brace yourself,” Lavellan said, and then it roared and charged, met by a flurry of knives, arrows, staffs, teeth, and a very sharp sword. Despite its size and apparent strength, they’d dealt with their fair share of Behemoths in Emprise du Lion, and this one was no different.

Well, perhaps a bit different, for when it fell and crumbled, it left behind a small, glittering emerald pendant. Solas picked it up, turning it over in his palms. “It is a seal, meant to open a door of some sort,” he mused. “The Templars were collecting these, perhaps without even knowing why.”

“You think there are others?” Lavellan asked. He looked around, taking in their surroundings – Din’an Hanin was huge, with towers and massive walls and an imposing main building, which was where the courtyards led. “They could be anywhere…”

Solas shook his head. “Such seals would be hidden in similar locations throughout the tomb – perhaps in distinct vessels of some kind?” At Lavellan’s doubtful look, he raised his chin and folded his arms. “Believe me; I will know it when I see it.”

“Lead the way, then,” Lavellan relented, slinging Fen back over his shoulder and making his way up the stairs from whence the Behemoth had come, into a vast hall that took his breath away. Though the grand staircases were cracked and derelict, the ceiling far above them was vaulted and ornate, and the entire perimeter was lined with statues of owls. A tribute to Falon’Din, no doubt. Fitting – the god of the dead would probably feel right at home in a tomb, especially one so extravagant.

Solas stood beside him. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It’s sad,” Lavellan replied. Nira sneezed in agreement. “Let’s keep moving.”

They descended the steps. Solas persisted. “Sad?”

“Yes. This was something great once. Now it’s just an…an echo.”

“And echoes cannot be great?” Solas asked.

“Maybe to some. Not to me.”

Thankfully, their discussion was cut short as they found the second Behemoth, and not far from it an old clay jar that contained the second seal. Lavellan did not miss Solas’s smug expression as he pocketed the pendant. “Where would the next one be?” he prompted. Solas was annoying, but at least he was useful.

Solas gave him a look like he knew exactly what Lavellan was thinking. It was unnerving. “The door they open, presumably leading to the tomb we seek, would be in the deepest part of this place. So we should probably find some stairs leading down…and continue from there.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Lavellan replied lightly. Solas smiled coolly.

“Trust me, Inquisitor. I am.”

*

Five seals later, and they’d entered a more open area covered in foliage and riddled with Venatori and Templars. Some more statues of Elvhen deities informed them it was called the Hallowed Tombs, in the upper crypts. Lavellan appreciated the large arches and holes in the ceiling – it felt far less constricting and uncomfortable.

What was unavoidably uncomfortable were Solas’s continued attempts to talk to him (and Tallis) about ancient elf trivia, or something. Lavellan couldn't really care less. His newest topic was religion.

“The statues of the harts off to the right represent your goddess, Ghilan’nain, as I’m sure you know.”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “ _My_ goddess?”

“Yes, your vallaslin is that of the Mother of Halla. I assume you knew that when you went through the ritual…”

Lavellan snorted. “Of course I knew that. The Dalish may have made many mistakes, but we do know which vallaslin represents which god.” Solas’s mouth twitched a little, as if Lavellan had made a joke, but he didn’t elaborate.

“So why did you choose Ghilan’nain?” Solas asked. “Did you feel a connection to her?”

Lavellan gave him an incredulous look. “A connection? I stopped believing in the gods as a child, actually. So, no, I never felt a connection in the way you’re thinking. But she was the most similar to me – snowy white hair, liked animals, gentler and less prone to vengeance, all of that. And as a child, I always used to watch the halla and pretend they were something more than just deer – guardian spirits, like the stories said.”

“Why did you stop believing?”

Lavellan blinked. Solas was watching him intently. He swallowed. “I…well, the gods abandoned us. They might have been real in the time of Arlathan, but all that’s gone now, obviously.” He gestured at their decrepit surroundings. “So no, I don’t believe in them. They’ve never given me reason to.”

“What about the Maker?” Cassandra cut in.

Lavellan sighed. “He _definitely_ abandoned everyone. Isn’t that exactly what the Chantry says? That he turned his back on his creations?” Cassandra frowned. “Sorry. But no, the Maker is not someone I’d even want to believe in.”

“I agree with you,” Tallis chimed in, leaning close conspiratorially. “About pretty much everything. The Qun makes a lot more sense.” At Lavellan’s skeptical expression she shrugged and added, “I’m not trying to convert you. It’s not for everyone. But it gave me a purpose, a place where I belonged. Before them…I was nothing.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “Nothing? How so?”

She grimaced. “I was a slave. My parents sold me into it. The Qunari saved me from that life.”

“Ah.” Lavellan glanced back at Dorian, who was sulking for some reason. “So…that’s why you don’t like Tevinter.”

“Does _anyone_ really like Tevinter?” she shot back. When Lavellan nodded to Dorian, she rolled her eyes. “Besides spoiled Altuses.”

“He’s not that bad,” Lavellan admitted. “Spoiled, yes. But he’s…working on it.”

Dorian tripped, his yelp echoing through the chamber. “Venhedis, how long does this crypt go on for?! My feet are _killing_ me!”

Lavellan rubbed his temple. “It’s a long, slow, painful process, clearly.”

Tallis laughed. “Hey, if you think he’s one of the good guys, I’ll take your word for it.” She then looked down at Nira, who was stopping every few feet to sniff at the piles of mortar and dust before catching up to them. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner,” he said. Nira stuck her entire head into a heap of leaves and emerged with one impaled on a horn. He plucked it off.

“I’ve seen weirder, believe it or not.” Tallis sounded dead serious, and if she’d traveled with the Champion, he didn’t doubt it. Garrett Hawke was a weird guy. “But I’d still like to hear the story – there’s gotta be one, right?”

“Well…” Lavellan started from the beginning, and gave her the short but exciting History of Nira. When he got to the part about her saving them from a high dragon, her eyes went wide, and she looked at Nira with awe.

“No wonder the Qunari consider dragons sacred,” she said dreamily when he was done. “I mean, I don’t think they’d approve of you keeping one as a, uh, companion, but…if it actually works, and she grows up as loyal as she is now…” Tallis grinned. “I wouldn’t envy the person who tries to cross you then, Inquisitor.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of her being some oversized bodyguard, but…it would be nice to feel safer, I suppose.” Lavellan paused. “You know, if anyone needs a dragon to protect them, it might be you. Hunting an escaped Saarebas alone doesn’t sound particularly safe.”

Tallis patted the mage collar. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Don’t worry about me – this isn’t my first Saarebas mission.”

“How did the other missions go?”

Tallis looked away. “Uh…could’ve been better. But I got the job done, and that’s what matters.” Her face lit up. “And now I have plenty of extra help!”

Lavellan inclined his head. “Yes, you do.”

They walked in relative silence for a while, with Cassandra and Dorian talking about Nevarran masquerades and Solas gazing forlornly at every statue they passed. When they’d reached the next staircase, Tallis turned to him again.

“You know, you never did say what you were looking for in here. Can I ask, or is it some big Inquisition secret?”

Lavellan shook his head. “Thing is, we’re not sure what we’re trying to find. But the Dalish seemed to be certain something big was hidden in the tomb. Maybe an important artifact? I don’t know.”

“What will you do when you find it?” she asked.

Lavellan thought about it for a moment. “I suppose I’d return it to the Keeper in the Exalted Plains…it depends what it is, but the elves should have it, one way or another.”

“That’s awfully noble of you.”

“Well, I’m sure Cassandra will suggest I sell it to the Chantry or something equally absurd.” Lavellan made a face.

Tallis snickered. “You really don’t like the Chantry, huh? I heard in the beginning, everyone was calling you the Herald of Andraste.”

Lavellan groaned. “Oh, Creators, don’t even get me started.”

“They really called you that?!”

“Some still do,” Lavellan said resignedly. “I’ve just given up by now, honestly. It’s far better than knife-ear, though.”

“I’ll bet,” Tallis agreed.

“If the two of you are done chatting,” Dorian snapped, pushing past Lavellan and nearly stumbling over Nira, “I believe Solas has found the correct route.” He stomped ahead of them, Solas and Cassandra in his wake.

Tallis pursed her lips. “Is he usually like this? Pouty and short-tempered, I mean.”

Lavellan stared at Dorian’s back, slightly hurt and very bewildered. “No,” he said. “No, he’s not.”

“Huh.” She shrugged and followed him. “Well, let’s follow your grumpy Tevinter friend, then.” Tallis shivered as they descended yet another staircase, this one even more unstable than the others. “When the Ancient elves built tombs, they really went all out, didn’t they? How far does this thing go?” Tallis reached the bottom and she hurried to join the rest of the group. Lavellan leapt off the last step.

“That’s a good question – augh!”

The patch of floor at the end of the stairs had apparently suffered enough, and when Lavellan stepped on it, Nira at his heels, the old tiles creaked, gave way, and shattered under the weight of the elf and his dragon, sending them plummeting into clammy blackness with a shout and a terrified squeak. Lavellan landed heavily on a cold, damp surface, half-crushing Nira, who whimpered and pressed close to his side. Somehow, Lavellan got the strong impression that she was afraid of the dark. He didn’t blame her.

There was a commotion from above, and a circle of worried faces peered down from several meters up. “Lavellan?!” Dorian yelled, panic making his voice break.

“I’m fine,” Lavellan called back. “Just a few bruises. Nira’s here, too.” When he stood up, he winced and his arm didn’t quite move the way it was supposed to, but Dorian didn’t need to know that.

“We’ll come down to you,” Cassandra assured him, leaning farther over the edge. “Wait a moment and –”

“No, no, stay up there, look for the seals,” Lavellan replied hurriedly. “I think this is just…some sort of lower level. It probably all connects.”

“Probably?” Dorian said incredulously. “Come on, don’t be stupid. We’re getting you out of there!”

“No,” Lavellan said firmly, “you’re not. Stay up there, look for the seals, and do what we came here to do. That’s an order.”

There was a silence.

Cassandra hesitated and then finally nodded. “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

“Be safe,” Solas added. “With luck, we will meet you at the tomb.”

“Good thing you’ve got a dragon,” Tallis said brightly. “It was nice meeting you, Inquisitor.”

“You too, Tallis,” he said. He didn’t mention that said dragon was only about a month old and was currently entwined tightly around his ankles, trembling. “I hope you complete your mission.”

The others rose and started to walk away, but Dorian stayed. “I’m not leaving you here,” he said stubbornly.

Lavellan crossed his arms. “I can take care of myself, Dorian. And yes, you _are_ leaving me here. I don’t tolerate insubordination, remember?” He said it lightly, but he meant it. Dorian’s face crumpled. It was unexpected, and it made Lavellan feel very, very guilty. But he wasn’t going to let Dorian or anyone else put themselves in danger because he managed to fall down a hole a second time.

“If something happens to you…”

“It won’t. Alright? Go find the others, Dorian.”

Dorian still wavered.

“You know what? There is something you can do to help. Can you throw me a torch or something? It’s dark as the Void down here.” Nira snuffled in unhappy agreement.

Dorian nodded, and disappeared for a few moments. When he came back, he was holding a brazier lit with Veilfire. “Here,” he said. “This is less likely to go out.” He tossed it down, and sure enough the flame stayed, flickering but remaining steady when Lavellan caught it. Immediately, the area was cast in an eerie bluish glow, revealing what almost looked like a dungeon. Lavellan did not mention that.

“Thank you!” he said. “Much better now.” It was actually ghastlier than before. Nira pawed at the ground and paced around uneasily, tail lashing back and forth, but at least she’d uncurled herself from his legs.

“Don’t die,” Dorian muttered, standing. “Don’t you dare.”

“I won’t.” Lavellan said. “I promise.” He ignored the way his chest ached when Dorian disappeared from sight, his footfalls fading away. He looked down at Nira. She blinked up at him nervously. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

*

That, he soon discovered, was easier said than done.

The dungeonlike area they’d tumbled into was full of dead ends and locked doors so intricate that no amount of Lavellan’s fiddling could open them. To make matters worse, the whole place was covered in various types of mildew and veins of what Lavellan was fairly certain were lyrium. That wasn’t exactly comforting. He made a mental note not to mention them to anyone if he ever got out of here – he didn’t much like the idea of a lyrium mine under an Elvhen ruin.

Nira was even more frustrated than him – perhaps it was because she’d been abandoned in a similarly claustrophobic cave, or because she was more a creature of the sky than the earth – but whatever the reason, she was restless and kept growling in a very worrying way. He’d never seen her so upset, and at one point she actually snarled at him when he tried to touch her head consolingly. He flinched back and she actually lowered her head and whined, almost apologetically. He tried to take comfort in that. She wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe. Hopefully. Lavellan had his fingers crossed.

He finally managed to find a passageway that didn’t end in a barred door – instead it led to a good-sized underground…plaza? Lavellan wasn’t sure _what_ it was – there was a large circular section of tiles covered in a faded mosaic and surrounded by dangerously crumbling pillars. In between each pillar was an…altar? Lavellan sucked in a breath as the Veilfire’s light pierced the shadows, revealing what lay within them. Upon each altar was a body. An Elvhen body.

Lavellan slowly turned his eyes and the light to the mosaic. “Fenedhis,” he whispered. The artwork was not open to interpretation. The majority of the mosaic depicted a giant pile of bodies much like the ones on the altars, all of them elves and all of them wearing the vallaslin of Falon’Din. And each one of them had what could only be blood pouring from their limp wrists, making the entire lower half of the mosaic a pool of scarlet.

Above the bloody pile a figure with ashen skin, dark hair, and a glittering circlet stood, arms outstretched and ears tipped with gold. His eyes were empty. Lavellan stumbled back. None of this made sense. This wasn’t a burial chamber – it was a blood ritual chamber. But…but this wasn’t Tevinter. No. This was from the supposedly glorious time of the People.

But the longer he looked at the mosaic, the less glorious it seemed to be. And why did they all wear the Guide’s vallaslin? Didn’t that make them the god’s favored, his chosen…and yet they were being slaughtered like pigs. His own vallaslin itched.

Nira growled, lower and louder than he’d ever heard. Her claws scraped against the smooth stone.

Lavellan listened closely, but the whole place was…well, silent as the grave. There was nothing living down here except them.

Then the bodies began to move.

They did not come back to life – their limbs moved more like deranged puppets, heads tilted at unnatural angles and nearly-rotted eyes blind and hollow. Lavellan had seen necromancy many times before…just never like this. The corpses lurched towards him, flesh and tatters of fabric hanging off thin white bones. They should have been dust by now, but Lavellan suspected something had kept them partly preserved – all at once he felt the heavy, humming energy in the air, like Solas in his tower times ten. Whatever this magic was – whomever it came from – it was far more powerful.

Lavellan gritted his teeth and reached for Fen – only for his arm to crack painfully, protesting with every motion. He gasped and clutched at it – sprained, surely, if not broken. His left arm and his dagger would have to do, then. Lavellan dropped the Veilfire, the brazier spinning and clattering against the tile, making the shadows longer and darker, grotesquely stretched.

The corpses were closing in. Lavellan knew that behind him, there was no escape – only tangled, mazelike corridors. With a sinking feeling, he realized this was the only way out. He stared at his dagger. Even he wasn’t good enough to take down twelve corpses with just one arm and his secondary weapon. He looked down at his right hand, willing the Mark to save him, but it just glimmered dimly. He didn’t have enough focus at the moment to do anything useful with it.

He heard their jaws click, their hands reaching out towards him, twenty feet away, then fifteen, then ten…

Nira, still crouched in front of him, roared. The sound reverberated off the stone at almost unbearable volumes, stopping the corpses in their tracks for a mere moment. Lavellan’s heart pounded. “Get out of here,” he told her quietly. “Go back to the others. Can you understand me?” But she was a dragon, not a mabari, and she did not understand orders nor take them from anyone. She would stay here with him; that much was clear. Lavellan ignored the lump in his throat and held his dagger tighter. Fine. Fine, then. If he was going down, he wasn’t going without a fight –

The brilliant brightness of dragonfire flared into being, tearing through the reanimated bodies like they were nothing but illusions, troublesome mirages, reducing them to charred silhouettes that became crackling, crumbling heaps of ashes. Lavellan scrambled back, bracing himself against the wall, staring at Nira and the inferno she’d just created, the remnants of it illuminating the chamber in a way the Veilfire never could. The air was hot all of a sudden, stifling and so dry it was nearly blistering.

The last corpse toppled and collapsed into cinders, the remnants gathering on the now-singed mosaic.

Nira closed her jaws unsteadily, the fire dying in her throat. Lavellan stood, shell-shocked and on-edge, for the powerful energy was still there, in fact it seemed to grow in intensity by the second. Then a frigid draft ripped through the chamber, whirling through the spaces between the pillars and picking up the ashes in the center, carrying them up into the air until they formed a vaguely human – or rather Elvhen – shape. A specter. An echo.

Lavellan gazed at it, and though the mosaic before him still told a tale of tyranny and terror, he felt no fear. Not with his dragon there, lifting her head defiantly, the promise of fire in her eyes. The figure seemed to be waiting for something.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said.

Perhaps it was the right thing to say, or perhaps it was not. Either way, the wind rushed forward, scattering ashes all over them, and a sound very much like laughter echoed all around. When it ended, they were left truly alone this time, with the way ahead clear. Lavellan sank to his knees weakly, choking out a laugh when Nira turned and faced him, head cocked curiously and eyes golden, more alive and beautiful than ever.

“Thank you,” he told her, voice shaking.

Maybe she didn’t understand orders, but she seemed to understand gratitude just fine. Nira padded forward and nuzzled his uninjured shoulder, pushing against his side after a while and urging him to his feet. He looked down at her and smiled. “You’re right, let’s go. We have a promise to keep.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, was there not a major character death tag before? FIXED IT. oh, you thought this was gonna be a cute, happy story about dragon babies? WRONG. 
> 
> school is slowly killing me but u know what I'm determined to get at least an update a week. your support really keeps me goin :'D enjoy!

By the time Lavellan finally stumbled into the tomb with an exhausted Nira, the last shots had been fired and more corpses (plus a revenant; Lavellan was glad he missed that) were scattered here and there around the bedraggled group.

Lavellan was relieved to note they all seemed to be in one piece, and as he came closer he saw Tallis off to the side with a kneeling Qunari, the Saarebas collared and unconscious. He felt a surge of pity for her…until he saw the nasty-looking burn that had scorched right through Tallis’s armor.

Solas saw him first, eyes widening in alarm as he took in Lavellan’s probably very singed and unsightly appearance. “Inquisitor! What happened?”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Cassandra breathed, relief written all over her face. “We were beginning to worry.”

Dorian’s jaw worked. “You’re hurt,” was all he said.

Lavellan looked down at his arm and tried very hard not to wince when he moved it. “I—I’m fine. It’s nothing –” He nodded at Nira. “She saved me. She learned how to use her fire at a…very convenient time.”

“Saved you?” Dorian questioned, brow furrowing. “Lavellan…”

“Come, I can heal your arm,” Solas interrupted, gesturing for Lavellan to join him on the opposite side of the tomb. “The others should focus on retrieving the artifact.” Lavellan glanced up, and sure enough a glowing scroll was suspended in the air above the main sarcophagus. He shuddered and hurriedly went to Solas, Nira following him tiredly. Dorian watched him go, but reluctantly went to help Cassandra.

Lavellan obediently sat down on some fallen rubble beside Solas, gritting his teeth when the mage took his arm and examined the damage. “How did you manage to do this?” Solas asked mildly.

“When I fell,” Lavellan muttered. “I landed wrong. And then later…I tried to use my bow.” He hissed in a breath. “I think that, ah…dislocated it.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed. “That would do it.” Soothing magic curled around the injury, pushing the bones back slowly, and Lavellan watched the green light attentively. “Why did you try to use your bow, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan tensed again. A fresh bolt of pain went through him. “Please relax, Inquisitor,” Solas chided.

“Right, sorry,” Lavellan murmured. “I…I don’t know what happened, exactly. There were…corpses. But not like the ones here.”

Solas paused. “Oh?”

“There was a, um, burial chamber. The corpses came alive when we entered, like it was some kind of trap, and they were more…preserved.” He hesitated. “The magic was stronger, too. And after Nira burned the corpses, the ashes, they um…” Lavellan shook his head. “I was shaken. I probably imagined it.”

“What happened?”

Lavellan closed his eyes. “There was an unnatural wind and…and the ashes…it was like they turned into some kind of ghost. And it…it _laughed_. Then nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Have you ever heard of anything like that before?”

Solas withdrew his hand, leaving Lavellan’s arm nearly as good as new. “No, Inquisitor. I cannot say that I have. However…this is a very old ruin, with very old magic. Perhaps anything is possible.”

Lavellan gulped. “Anything?”

Solas inclined his head. “Perhaps.”

*

They left Din’an Hanin with a precious scroll containing the histories of the elves just before the Exalted Marches. Tallis seemed disappointed that it wasn’t something shinier or made of gold, but Lavellan suspected a piece of lost history would mean more to Keeper Hawen anyway. And he was more than happy to get out of the ruins as soon as possible.

Tallis said her farewells after a rousing game of Wicked Grace with Scout Harding.

“You know, you’re a good man, Inquisitor,” she told Lavellan, squeezing his arm with a smile. “It was too bad the Qunari alliance didn’t work out, but who knows? I get around. Here’s to hoping this isn’t quite goodbye.”

Lavellan smiled back. “Stay safe,” he said. His gaze traveled to the Saarebas, crouched and sulking several feet away. “And just…look, I know your people think mages are dangerous. They are, but…remember that they’re still people, too.”

“Dangerous people,” Tallis replied, but there was a certain understanding in her eyes. “Don’t worry too much – I’m not unnecessarily cruel. And I know you’ve got a soft spot for mages, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan flushed. “Um, what?”

Tallis blinked innocently. “Oh, you know, since you sided with the mages and all that.”

Relieved, Lavellan cleared his throat. “Ah. That. Yes.”

She grinned and leaned closer to him. “And the Tevinter seems awfully fond of you.”

Lavellan’s eyes widened, looking frantically for Dorian. Thank the Creators, he was on the other side of camp, having what appeared to be a heated discussion with Solas. “I do not know what you’re talking about,” he hissed. “We are friends. Very good friends.”

Tallis raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and turned on her heel to go. “Right! Silly me. Obviously, he wasn’t throwing a jealous fit just a few hours ago.”

Lavellan folded his arms. “Jealous? Why would he –”

Tallis snorted, and pointed to her ears, then her chest. “Dashing Inquisitor Lavellan meets an equally dashing and extremely mysterious elf girl in the forest! They proceed to talk to each other about secret elf things and bond over their shared culture and rant about how oppressed they are –”

Lavellan held up a hand wearily. “Alright, yes, point made. But he’s not…he wouldn’t care if that really did happen. If I eloped with some elf girl, I mean.” Tallis raised an eyebrow and he sighed. “Not that I’m going to. But if I did.”

Tallis looked thoughtful. “You know,” she said after a pause. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re just very friendly friends. But he was really worried about you, when we got separated. Every few seconds, he kept looking around like he was hoping you’d pop up. Solas suggested that you might have gotten into some kind of trouble, and he looked like a kicked puppy.”

Lavellan frowned. “That’s just…I don’t…”

“Even now, he keeps looking over here, like he’s checking up on you. Disgustingly cute, if you ask me. Also, maybe he’s afraid that we’ll kiss at any second.” At Lavellan’s shocked expression, she wiggled her eyebrows. “Like a dramatic farewell kiss! Come on, let’s do it.”

“What?” Lavellan sputtered. “No! Why…?”

“Shhh, don’t flail like that or he’ll know something’s up. You want to see if it’s jealousy or friendly concern? Now’s your chance. My offer is going once…going twice...”

“I’ve known you for less than five hours,” Lavellan said flatly.

“People who have known each other less time have done more.” Lavellan made a face. “Doesn’t have to be on the lips,” Tallis relented. “How about on the cheek? Is that sweet and chaste enough for you, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan glowered. “I’m not _chaste_ –”

Tallis put her hands on her hips. “Yeah? Then prove it!”

Lavellan hesitated, glancing over to where Dorian was standing. What was the harm?

Besides, Tallis was very pretty, in a kind of fierce way. Lavellan could work with it. So he leaned in and closed his eyes, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling Tallis against him smoothly. She snorted. He ignored it and kissed her firmly, satisfied when she stopped snickering and gave his hip an approving little pat.

One of the scouts whistled, and Lavellan stepped back stiffly, raking a hand through his hair. Tallis folded her arms. “Not bad,” she said. “Well, take care of yourself, Inquisitor. Maybe we’ll meet again. Sometime.” She jerked her head meaningfully in Dorian’s direction.

Very, very carefully, Lavellan looked over.

Dorian looked exactly like a kicked puppy.

Halfway across the camp, Tallis mouthed, “Told you so.”

Well, shit.

*

Dorian and Lavellan continued to share a tent on the journey back to Skyhold, but it wasn’t the same. Dorian was quieter and seemed determined to keep a two-foot distance between them at all times, which was a bit difficult when they were trying to sleep. Suddenly, everything was awkward instead of easy and comfortable, and Lavellan didn’t know what to _do_.

He also didn’t know what to do with the newfound knowledge that Dorian liked him. Probably. Why else would Dorian have looked so hurt and confused after the faked kiss? A better question – did Dorian still like him, or had Lavellan completely and utterly ruined everything? Because, truth be told, yes, he liked Dorian. That had become quite obvious after he’d contemplated kissing him in the snow, but even before that…Lavellan wasn’t _blind_ , and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t gotten the urge to protectively hug Dorian whenever Iron Bull made a particularly vulgar comment about him.

That was normal, though, right? For friends to be protective? Well…maybe he wouldn’t do the same thing for Cassandra. But she could certainly handle herself.

Then again, it wasn’t like Dorian couldn’t handle himself either.

That led to a very inappropriate train of thought, made worse by the fact that Dorian was asleep right behind him. Lavellan groaned and buried his face in the sheets. He wished Nira were there, but she’d gotten big enough that she preferred to sleep alongside whoever was on watch, curled around the dying embers of the campfire. They were back on the outskirts of Emprise du Lion, after a short venture into the Exalted Plains to return the histories to the Dalish. They’d recruited Loranil, who was sharing a tent with Solas (Cassandra had a tent to her own, although Lavellan thought it was only a matter of time before Loranil realized Solas was actually a prat or Solas kicked him out himself).

Anyway, it was cold again, which Lavellan wasn’t thrilled about. When all of this was over, he wanted to go somewhere warm. Tevinter was…probably not a good idea. Maybe Antiva then, or Rivain. Surely there would be plenty of men like Dorian there; tall, dark and handsome, experienced and good with their hands…

Lavellan was going to die before they even reached Skyhold, at this rate.

*

They’d finally left the land of lyrium and Templars behind, successfully avoiding any other surprise dragons. Lavellan felt a strange sort of longing when he looked at the looming Frostbacks, a beautiful but barren tundra in between them and the mountains that would take them home to Skyhold. He wondered when he’d started thinking of the castle as his home. Maybe it wasn’t the castle itself – maybe it was the people in it.

And that just brought him right back to Dorian.

Lavellan couldn’t sleep that night, his back aching on the frozen earth – the bed in Skyhold had made him grow soft, apparently. After much tossing and turning, sure that he was keeping Dorian awake with every little scuffle, Lavellan gave up and slid out of his cot, leaving the tent with one of his daggers and dismissing the current guard. The poor woman looked exhausted anyway.

Nira snuffled when he approached, but otherwise didn’t stir. She was having no trouble sleeping, clearly. He sighed and left the main camp, sitting down on the outskirts with his dagger balanced on his knee, staring out at the shadowy expanse of dirty snow speckled with the occasional tough flower or shrub. It seemed impossible that anything could live out here, yet from time to time a bird cried out, a wolf bayed, a deer bleated. But for the most part it was quiet. Lavellan relished the rare calm, and so it startled him even more when someone stepped on a twig right next to him.

His hand flew to his dagger, and he was halfway on his feet before he realized it was Dorian. “Oh,” he mumbled, sitting back down sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Good instincts,” Dorian remarked, hesitating before sitting down beside him, leaving a careful line of space in between. Lavellan swallowed and tried not to feel too awful about it. “So,” Dorian said. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Lavellan muttered, shaking his head. He looked up, biting his lip. “Did I wake you up?”

Dorian laughed shortly. “I never fell asleep to begin with, so no.” He tilted his head. “Lavellan, are you alright? You…never really elaborated on what happened in the tomb. All Solas would say is that you were attacked by corpses.”

“I was,” Lavellan hedged, reluctant to say anything else. “There were…a lot. And the magic used to make them was very strong. It was unnerving.”

“You said Nira saved you,” Dorian whispered. “What did you…what did you mean?”

Lavellan didn’t meet his eye. “My right arm was useless and I only had one dagger left. The odds were not in my favor.”

Dorian said nothing.

“But I’m in danger every day, Dorian, we all are. I didn’t even think I would make it past Haven, and here we are.” Lavellan hoped he sounded braver than he felt. Dorian’s stony silence wasn’t helping. So Lavellan just kept talking. “And about Tallis –”

Dorian lifted his head warily. “Yes, what about Tallis? Your very public display with her is certain to garner plenty of gossip, I hope you know.”

Lavellan was shaking, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the cold. “Why do _you_ care what I do with Tallis?” he asked.

Dorian actually flinched back, as if Lavellan had struck him. “I don’t,” he snapped, but he was lying and they both knew it. “You’re the Inquisitor – you can do whatever you want, so by all means, don’t let me stop you!”

“It wasn’t real,” Lavellan found himself saying.

Dorian faltered. “What?”

“Tallis and I, we didn’t…I mean, it was a joke.”

“A joke.” Dorian frowned. “Well, it wasn’t very funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan murmured. “I’m not doing this very well, am I?” He took a deep breath. “Tallis thought you were jealous of us. I didn’t believe her, so she found a way to prove it to me. That’s all it was.”

Dorian looked at him frostily. “Well, are you happy now that you’ve had your fun, Inquisitor?” He stood stiffly, scowling down at Lavellan, who was still huddled on the cold ground. “I’m going to sleep.”

Lavellan stared at him, wide-eyed, scrambling to his feet. “No, no, Dorian, wait – you don’t understand, I wasn’t…I wanted to find out if you were jealous because I wanted to know if you liked me. Because I like you.”

Dorian froze, still tense but for different reasons now. “Lavellan…”

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan whispered, and then before he could talk himself out of it he was stepping forward and kissing Dorian, his lips shockingly warm in the chill air. It lasted for several glorious moments and then Dorian’s brow furrowed and he stepped back hastily.

“This is…not a very good idea,” Dorian said apologetically, not meeting Lavellan’s gaze.

“Oh,” Lavellan said, heart pounding. “I’m…sorry?”

“No, you’re not,” Dorian said with a faint smile, and then he turned and went back to the tent, boots crunching in the snow.

Lavellan did not follow.

*

They were received at Skyhold with a rather ridiculous celebration of sorts. The journey had been longer than most of their other escapades, and there was much to be done. But for now, everyone was content to take a much-needed break. That night, the tavern was filled to bursting, with the festivities continuing as far as the stables. Lavellan doubted that Blackwall minded too much.

Josephine, on the other hand, was probably experiencing whole new levels of anxiety over the whole thing. She didn’t quite understand the meaning of spontaneous fun. Lavellan didn’t see her or Leliana at all – he suspected the spymaster was giving her a calming talk about Orlesian shoes or something. Personally, Lavellan found Orlesian shoes more terrifying than comforting, but to each their own.

Nira had been more than a little exhausted upon their return, and Lavellan had taken her up to his quarters for the night before venturing down to the tavern himself. Between what had happened with Dorian and what had happened in Din’an Hanin, he could use a strong drink or six.

Commander Cullen had taken Loranil under his wing right away, and the two of them were chatting in a quieter corner along with Cassandra, Michel, and Ser Barris, keeping a careful distance from the drinks. Lavellan had no such reservations, and was thoroughly enjoying his third mug of…something Bull had given him.

Hm. On second thought, maybe he should be a little worried about that.

Bull and Krem were talking about dragons (big surprise) on the stools next to him. Lavellan leaned closer to Bull. “Hey,” he said, poking the keg Bull had brought over. “What is this, exactly?”

Bull blinked, and stared down at Lavellan’s empty mug before bursting into laughter. “Oh, shit, boss. How many of those did you have?” Lavellan held up three fingers. Bull whistled. “Wow! That’s impressive, ‘specially for a little guy like you.”

Krem rolled his eyes. “He means you should stop before you pass out, vomit, or both.”

“I’m fine,” Lavellan grumbled, but relented and settled on rum instead. He _was_ starting to feel a little dizzy. He barely noticed that Bull hadn’t really answered his question – if it was drugged, it was taking way too long to be efficient anyway.

Someone plowed into him from behind, knocking him right off his stool and into their arms. “Hey, fancy pants! Didn’t think you could hide from me, didja?” Lavellan grinned at the familiar voice, turning to find Sera grinning right back. “So, how was it? Find lots of elfy things? Make baldy elfy elf mad? Please tell me you got his panties in a twist.”

Lavellan snorted, leaning back against the counter and taking another drink. “Sure. But that’s not the exciting part. I kissed a pretty elf girl.”

Sera cackled. “Ha, right! And I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

“I did!” Lavellan took another swig. “Oh, and I kissed Dorian.”

Sera blinked. Bull stopped laughing. “Wait, _what_ , boss?”

“Can I have another drink of that…whatever that is?”

But Bull withheld the keg. “Boss. Seriously. I think you’ve had plenty. And you might wanna, uh…lower your voice when talking about the ‘Vint, okay?”

“Too late,” Varric said, sidling up to them without a hint of apology. “I’m intrigued. Did you say what I think you said, Freckles, because if so – it’s about damn time.”

Lavellan glowered. “Yeah? Well, he didn’t think so.”

Sera stomped her foot. “Then he’s dumb! You’re cute, from the right angle.” She proceeded to tilt her head nearly ninety degrees, sticking her tongue out in concentration. “Nah, haven’t found it yet!”

“Ha ha,” Lavellan deadpanned. His body felt warm, his face even more so. His head was pleasantly fuzzy, floaty, detached. He was going to have an incredible hangover tomorrow. And he didn’t actually care.

“So, what, Sparkler rejected you?” Varric snorted. “I find that unlikely. He certainly gets around enough as it is.”

Bull chuckled. “True.”

Lavellan blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Pretty sure he’s seduced half the soldiers in Skyhold,” Krem said dismissively. “Surprised you didn’t notice.”

Lavellan took another drink, fast enough to make his throat burn. “Huh,” he said. “Is that so?”

“Maybe it’s just ‘cause you’re the big bad Inquisitor,” Sera suggested. “Also, y’know, elf.” She sniffed. “Dunno much about elves or the evil magey mages but what I do know? Not good, nuh-uh.”

Varric shook his head. “Nah, he slept with Scout Cillian – and he’s definitely an elf. You may be getting somewhere with the ‘big, bad Inquisitor’ theory, though.”

“No offense,” Bull cut in, “but you’re not big or bad, boss. Maybe that’s the problem?”

Lavellan’s grip on his mug tightened, ears twitching irritably. “Not helping.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“And I _could_ be bad,” he added sulkily. “He has no idea.” Bull choked on his drink. Krem whacked his back very unsympathetically.

“Ew,” Sera said, scrunching up her nose. “Friggin’ ew, Inquisitor.”

“Quite right, darling,” Vivienne said, skirting Bull and Sera with an expression of distaste. She decided to take her chances with standing next to Varric.

If Lavellan were sober, he’d be hiding his face in shame. As it was, he just sighed and slumped, taking a gloomy swig. “I don’t suppose you’re here to offer positive reinforcement?”

“Am I ever, darling?” she retorted, taking a small sip of her wine. (Where had she gotten such a clean glass, anyway?) “Anyway, at least dear Dorian isn’t some random commoner. He has a birthright. That, at least, I approve of.”

“But he’s a Tevinter!” Sera squawked. “That’s like, bad, yeah?”

“Ah, it could be worse,” Vivienne replied. “He could be Antivan.”

“Hey!” Varric said reproachfully. “They have great wine, you’ve got to give ‘em that.”

“No,” Vivienne sniffed, “I don’t.” She looked back at Lavellan. “Darling, listen. Dorian is practically a self-proclaimed harlot. If you really wish to stoop down to his level, then by all means – the night is young, and he is rather easy prey. But I suggest you hurry, before someone else snatches him up.”

“You have Madame de Fer’s blessing,” Varric announced. “Go forth, and make her proud, Inquisitor.”

“Ugh,” Vivienne said, turning and walking away with a whirl of skirts. “I do not want any details later. None. From any of you.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Lavellan muttered. “And stop talking about Dorian like he’s some kind of prize to be won.”

“Not a very valuable prize if almost everyone’s gotten it,” Sera giggled. Bull chortled.

Anger bubbled up in Lavellan’s chest. “I’m leaving,” he said. The alcohol took the temper out of his voice, slurring and softening the words.

“Well, _I_ want details later, Freckles,” Varric teased. “Maybe you and Dorian will make it into a whole chapter of the Inquisitor Lavellan Story, if you’re descriptive enough.”

Lavellan shook his head. “Goodnight,” he replied shortly, pushing through the crowd of revelers and stepping outside, the cool mountain air washing over him. The castle was lit by charming little lamps that looked like fireflies floating in the darkness, strung up along and across the ramparts. Thus the world was reduced to puddles of gold amidst a sea of surging shadows, dancing people laughing and singing in light and dark alike.

Lavellan didn’t feel much like singing or dancing. Instead, he made his way up the steps to the throne room, glad to be out of his uniform – less people recognized him that way. Besides, they were too caught up in their merriment. He was glad for it – he was glad they were happy. He just wished he could share in that feeling.

  
_This is not a very good idea._ Lavellan furrowed his brow. Was he not good enough, not as good as all those other men Dorian had apparently been cavorting with in the past year? He didn’t understand. Besides, how did everyone but him seem to know about it? Dorian had never spoken to Lavellan about those things, never boasted to him or others as far as he knew…So then, did that mean the soldiers he’d bedded were the ones spreading rumors, telling sordid tales about Dorian Pavus?

Lavellan told himself he didn’t care. Dorian could do whatever (or whomever) he wanted. But then, what right did Dorian have to get upset about him kissing Tallis? He had no right. No. Lavellan’s fists clenched. He had no right to let Lavellan kiss him like that and then walk off with a smile like he was playing hard to get, when apparently he was the easiest catch in the sea.

Abruptly, Lavellan turned around. His gaze traveled over the entirety of Skyhold’s courtyards, eyes adjusting to the darkness naturally, straining to hear the cadences of different voices. At once, he heard Cole’s unique tone – he and Solas stood beside one of the lanterns, their wan skin lit up like thin parchment. For just a moment, Cole stuttered off into silence and raised his eyes to look up at Lavellan, silent and knowing. Lavellan did not stay to hear the troubled, disjointed words that fell from the spirit’s lips and made Solas’s brow furrow.

He was not looking for parchment skin tonight.

The silhouettes blended and blurred together, and so it took some searching, but when Lavellan finally found him he was drinking wine and standing next to some Orlesian noble, masked but probably handsome, judging by the sharp curve of his jawline and the softer curve of his lips. Lavellan’s eyes narrowed, and he descended the stairs again, making his way towards Dorian with purpose. His inebriation gave him the courage to do so, but really, it was inevitable. Now it was Lavellan’s turn to be jealous, and he wasn’t just going to stand around looking like a kicked puppy about it.

Dorian was just starting to lean into the other man’s space a little too far to be considered friendly when Lavellan reached him. Dorian paused and drew back with a little cough, raising an eyebrow at him. “Inquisitor. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His words were slurred just barely, color high in his cheeks. It seemed Lavellan was not the only one who’d had too much to drink.

The noble’s eyes widened behind his mask. They were blue; soft and innocent. Lavellan nearly scoffed. Big and bad? Not likely. “O-oh! Inquisitor Lavellan, it is an honor!” He gave an awkward little bow. Dorian shifted uncomfortably. Good. Let him squirm. “I have heard so much about you; I only arrived last week but I –”

“Nice to meet you,” Lavellan said in a tone that didn’t match the words. “Dorian. A word.”

“Oh, come now,” Dorian whined, waving a hand. “Things were just getting fun!”

“Fun?” Lavellan murmured, sidling up to him until their chests were nearly touching. Blue Eyes was quickly backing away, leaving the two of them alone in the (still fairly exposed) corner. “With him? I doubt he’s even been kissed before.”

Dorian’s breath caught when his back hit the stone wall, cornered and caught and not really trying all that hard to get away. “Yes, well, I was just about to fix that,” Dorian mumbled, and Lavellan hissed in disagreement, going up on his tiptoes and kissing him soundly, fingers curling into the front of his robes, swallowing the shocked sound Dorian made, tasting wine and spices.

Dorian didn’t step away _immediately_ this time, but he did step away, looking around wildly. There were people everywhere, and though Lavellan’s back was turned to them and really, it could be any plucky blond elf he was kissing, Dorian was obviously uneasy about the lack of privacy. And suddenly Lavellan understood. Dorian had no qualms about taking men to his bed, but was reluctant to let others see any evidence of that – certainly he hadn’t been able to flaunt it back in Tevinter. Lavellan thought of the others back in the tavern, talking about Dorian as if he was an object to be used and discarded, and instead of anger, a kind of protective warmth filled him, directed at Dorian, softening the harsh edges of his expression, loosening his hold on the expensive fabric.

He looked at Dorian from under his lashes. “Please,” he said quietly.

Dorian looked like he was in pain. “Lavellan,” he whispered, and it was meant to be a protest but intoxication brought out the note of _want_ in his voice instead. He bit his lip, reaching up and cupping Lavellan’s face, thumb sliding over the scar across his lips. Lavellan leaned into it, eyes never leaving his. “My quarters are closer,” he relented.

“Yes,” Lavellan replied. “Lead the way.”

*

Somewhere in between the courtyard and Dorian’s room, Lavellan’s tipsy state became very much _drunk_ , with Dorian quickly catching up. Lavellan kept giggling and clinging to his side, tripping over his own feet with uncharacteristic gracelessness, and by the time Dorian shut the door behind them he was already a mess.

“What did you _do_ to this place?” Lavellan exclaimed, looking around at the various draperies and the low bed covered in richly colored blankets, the smell of incense heavy and sweet just like the weight of Dorian against his back. “Looks like a brothel.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Close enough.” Lavellan laughed, delighted, and stumbled across the room, falling onto the bed with a surprised grunt. He rubbed his face against the silk sheets and made a pleased sound, stilling when Dorian climbed up after him, pressing his body along the length of Lavellan’s spine and kissing his ear, coaxing him over and onto his back. Lavellan shivered in uninhibited pleasure, complying and stretching, grinning lopsidedly up at Dorian.

“C’mere,” he invited, lifting a hand and slipping it into Dorian’s hair, bringing him closer. “Mm. You’re warm.”

“And you’re drunk,” Dorian replied, eyes unfocused.

“Look who’s talking,” Lavellan murmured, and then his hips shifted up and both of them groaned, pressure and friction right where they needed it but not enough. Dorian’s fingers found the hem of his tunic and he nodded quickly, moaning when Dorian kissed and licked his way across the newly-bared skin, sucking and biting along his collarbones while smoothing heated palms down his sides, moving inward to his hipbones and down, ‘til Lavellan was bare and desperate, a red flush spreading down his chest. At the touch of soft palms to hard flesh he gasped and tugged Dorian down, struggling with the various buckles and straps on the mage’s robes.

Once they were skin to skin, Lavellan sort of…pounced and rolled, straddling his thighs and kissing Dorian with messy enthusiasm, marveling at the novelty of the naked human body – he supposed he’d known they were generally larger and stronger, with far less delicate bone structure; rougher around the edges. But seeing it up close – _feeling it_ – was something else entirely. And Lavellan was fascinated. He marveled at the thick cords in Dorian’s neck that stood out whenever Lavellan moved just right against him, the broad, toned chest that rose and fell under Lavellan’s, the muscled arms that wrapped around his lower back, one large hand finding his ass and squeezing. Lavellan groaned at that, grinding down harder.

Oh, and Dorian’s cock was pretty great too. Lavellan wriggled happily atop him, aligning it against his own, and idly thought about how it would be even greater in his mouth.

Yes, he was very drunk.

Lavellan kissed Dorian’s jaw, their bodies still moving together, the air a miasma of sex and sweat. “Hey,” he mumbled, “you know what would be great?”  
Dorian’s eyes sparked, and perhaps his fingers did too if the sudden crackle of static against Lavellan’s waist was any indication. “I have a few ideas,” he murmured, smirking, and then the world spun and Lavellan found himself pinned, covered completely by dusky skin and sudden, startling raw strength.

Maybe it should have scared him, to be trapped under a man who would be hard to fight off even without his magic. But the breathlessness he felt was not from fear. It was easy to let himself relax, arching up into the bow of Dorian’s body and clinging tight with lithe legs and slender arms as Dorian wrapped a hand around them both and started a rhythym, breathing hotly against his throat. Lavellan’s body sang, his thoughts caught in an endless litany of _yes, yes, yes_.

Lavellan had been called naïve before, in the very beginning. Since then, he had changed in more ways than he knew, and the list of people he truly trusted had shrunk rapidly.

Dorian was somewhere near the top of that list. And he did not disappoint.

*

Lavellan was in a dark place.

He couldn’t see _anything_ , and that was what scared him the most – elves relied heavily on their excellent eyesight, and it was as if…slowly he raised a hand to his face and was confused to find some sort of blindfold tied there. What…? Shaking his head, he moved to take it off, and froze when a cold hand with long fingers snatched his wrist, stopping him.

“No,” a voice said, rasping right in his ear. He yelped and scrambled back, but the voice chuckled and he realized with growing alarm that he was chained to the floor by some invisible bond, immobile from the waist down. Lavellan’s breaths came faster, panicked.

“Who are you?” Lavellan snapped, turning his head back and forth, trying to discern the position of the other person. “What do you want?!”

Another cold hand, this time skating down his face, nails scratching his cheek just barely, tracing over the vallaslin on his chin. “I am a friend,” the voice said sardonically. “And I want to warn you.”

“Warn me of what?” Lavellan whispered, cringing back from the icy touch.

“Death,” the voice murmured.

Lavellan swallowed. “Whose death?”

It chuckled. “Yours.”

Suddenly the floor beneath him was damp and sticky, the unmistakable metallic scent of blood filling the air. Lavellan cried out and tried to move again, but he could not, he was broken and helpless and the creature’s laughter echoed grotesquely in his ears, red-hot pain flooding his throat and chest, tears filling his eyes –

Lavellan awoke with a jolt, soaked in a cold sweat and panting, alone in an unfamiliar bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sheesh, this chap is long and pretty eventful. enjoy!
> 
> Cassandra's 'Nevarran' dialogue is a mixture of Old Prussian and Romanian languages, and scorto comes from the Latin noun scortus which means prostitute, so uh, close enough? Echo's Elvhen is from the elvhen lexicon here on ao3, which is incredibly helpful!
> 
> \+ the beautiful art is by the incredible Nioell (check out her deviantart and give her some love)

To his credit, at least Dorian didn’t try very hard to hide.

Lavellan found him at his usual spot in the library, chatting with Minaeve and shooting dirty looks at every raven that flew even remotely close to him. When he saw Lavellan, however, his words stuttered to a halt, and Lavellan saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed hard. Minaeve nodded to Lavellan and went on her way, none the wiser.

However, half the Inquisition’s inner circle was very much aware of what had happened last night, Lavellan realized as he approached Dorian, thanks to his own drunken stupidity. Well, he would probably have to face the fallout of that later. For now...well, he needed to get this over with.

He tried to stay focused, although the disturbing dream still haunted him. Lavellan swore that even in the warmth of the library, he could feel a faint sensation like cold claws against his neck; and he kept blinking hard to assure himself that he could see, that he was awake, that it had just been a very, very bad dream.

But when Lavellan reached the shelves and caught Dorian’s uneasy gaze, he forgot all about the dream and instead remembered what had come (literally) before it. He flushed and folded his arms. “So,” he said, “how did you sleep?” He found himself unable to keep the note of sarcasm out of his voice.

Dorian’s mouth twitched. “Awful,” he replied lightly. “Something – or rather someone – kept me up far too late.”

“And yet you didn’t seize the opportunity to sleep in?” Lavellan retorted.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Given your intoxication last night, I rather doubted you would even want to see me in the morning, much less come and find me.”

“And yet, here I am,” Lavellan said. “Besides, I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know what I was doing. Or who I was doing it with.”

“Oh, well, that _is_ a relief,” Dorian snarked. “Here I thought you were under the impression that I was the Iron Bull. Sorry to disappoint.”

Lavellan scowled. “I suppose you’d know all about that.”

Dorian blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, yes. Our friends were telling some very interesting stories about you and…half of the Inquisition’s army, was it?” Lavellan narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve realized, but you’ve become somewhat of a legend here. And not a particularly good one.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes right back. “And what if I don’t care? I don’t see how it’s any of your business. It is _my_ reputation, after all. And I daresay you didn’t seem to care much about it last night.”

Lavellan shrugged. “You’re right, I don’t hold it against you – I just don’t want your nickname around Skyhold to be…ah, what is it… _scorto_?”

Dorian’s glare increased tenfold. “I don’t remember teaching you the Tevene word for whore.”

“Krem uses some colorful expressions during sword practice,” Lavellan replied. “Anyway. I…I don’t care who you sleep with. But, um. I notice you have a pattern of only sleeping with them once?”

“Yes,” Dorian said warily. “I believe the term is ‘one-night stand,’ Inquisitor.”

“What if I don’t want that?” Lavellan blurted.

Dorian frowned, although he didn’t exactly look displeased. “What are you proposing, then?”

“I mean, if you want this to be the first and only time, then that’s fine, it is, I just –”

“You want a repeat?” Dorian was smirking a little.

Lavellan bit his lip. “Yes,” he mumbled. “I know you said it wasn’t a good idea, but…”

Dorian’s expression changed, suddenly unreadable. “Ah. I suppose I did say that, didn’t I? And right after you’d given me a lovely kiss. I was more sober then.” He wrinkled his nose. “And yet somehow more prone to making bad decisions.”

“I still like you,” Lavellan whispered, feeling stupid even as he said it. “And if last night was the only night I got to have with you, I’d be…disappointed.”

“Well,” Dorian said after a terrifying pause, “I concur.”

“You, um, you do?” Lavellan stared at him. This was not what he’d expected.

Dorian tilted his head. “Why not? Call me scorto one more time and I’ll consider it.” He grinned, and Lavellan’s heart literally fluttered. That should’ve been the first warning sign, but he ignored it. “It’ll set tongues wagging, you know.” He sounded almost gleeful about that.

Lavellan snorted. “Something tells me you wouldn’t mind more people talking about you.”

“You know me so well,” Dorian murmured, stepping forward and right into Lavellan’s space. His breath caught. “But there’s plenty more for you to learn.” Oh, he didn’t doubt that. Lavellan tried valiantly not to think about Dorian’s mouth on his, Dorian’s bare chest in the lamplight, Dorian’s body pressing him down against the sheets; Dorian, Dorian, Dorian. Obviously, he failed.

“We’ll see about that, scorto,” Lavellan snickered. Dorian’s smugness was replaced by mock-outrage.

“I am going to have some very strong words with dear Cremisius,” Dorian grumbled. “I don’t even want to know what other filthy phrases he’s taught you.”

“You sure about that?” Lavellan murmured suggestively, darting back when Dorian’s gaze darkened. “Ah, ah, ah. Later. I’m a busy man, remember? Inquisitor, and all that.”

“How could I forget?” Dorian sighed, stepping away reluctantly. “Go on, then, before Cullen sends out a search party or Leliana shivs someone.”

Lavellan chuckled (although those were both somewhat valid possibilities), moving towards the stairs. “My quarters tonight?” he asked.

Dorian inclined his head with a smile. “I look forward to it, Inquisitor.”

*

Lavellan didn’t go to the War Room immediately. Instead he went downstairs to Solas, unable to shake the bad feeling he got whenever he thought back to the dream. It had been too real for his liking. Solas was a somniari – he had to know something about this, right? Lavellan sure hoped so, because none of the conclusions he was coming to on his own were good ones.

Solas was studying a shard they’d found ages ago when Lavellan came in, and looked up curiously. “Inquisitor. Is everything alright?”

Lavellan crossed the room, shaking his head and sitting down gingerly on the battered sofa in the corner. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think it is.” Solas frowned and sat next to him, brows furrowed. “Do you believe dreams can foretell the future, Solas? Can they come true?”

Solas’s frown grew. “It depends on the dream, and the dreamer,” he replied. “Some claim to see prophecies when they dream, and those certainly have some truth. Why do you ask, Inquisitor?”

“I had a dream,” he muttered. “A very ominous dream. I was…I couldn’t see anything; I don’t think he wanted me to see him for some reason.”

“He?”

“Yes, he was…I don’t know who he was, or what, but there was a male voice and…he said he was warning me.”

“Warning you of what?”

“My death,” Lavellan said. Solas inhaled sharply. “And then I felt like…like I was dying. Then I woke up. It felt so real.” Lavellan looked at him apprehensively. “I’m not a mage, so it couldn’t have been a demon, right?”

Solas sighed. “It is hard to say, Inquisitor. The mark on your hand is very strong magic that could attract spirits and possibly demons in much the same way that a mage’s link to the Fade does.”

Lavellan considered that. “Hm…wait, you told me once that the orb’s magic was elvhen, right?”

“Yes,” Solas said.

“And in the Fade at Adamant, we found out that I got the mark when I touched the orb. So…that means the mark itself is elvhen. And maybe…maybe it could attract elvhen…things?” Lavellan was rambling, but it was hard to contain his panic.

Solas hesitated, looking troubled. “Inquisitor…what exactly did you see in Din’an Hanin? Besides the spectre you described.”

Lavellan wavered. “It didn’t make any sense,” he whispered. “It…it wasn’t a burial chamber, Solas. It was a ritual chamber. A blood ritual chamber.”

“For Falon’Din,” Solas murmured. “I see.”

“You…you _see_?” Lavellan’s eyes widened. “So you knew the Ancient elves performed blood sacrifices?”

Solas scoffed. “They were not perfect, Inquisitor. Certainly they came close, but their society had a delicate balance of power like any other. And the ones without power suffered.” His lips twisted. “Yes, they enslaved their own – some would say they were no better than Tevinter, although that would be grievous mistake.”

“Are you justifying the fact that they had slavery?” Lavellan snapped.

“No, Inquisitor,” Solas said quietly. “How did you know it was a blood ritual chamber?”

“There was a…a mosaic on the floor. With slaves being bled.” Lavellan looked away. “They had Falon’Din’s vallaslin.”

When Lavellan looked at him again, he was surprised to see that Solas seemed…sad. “You’ve figured it out, then,” he murmured. “As I did long ago, in my journeys to the Fade. They are slave markings.”

Lavellan closed his eyes, touching his forehead and its swirling sepia lines. “Yes,” he said. “I thought as much. But I had hoped…”

“A noble marked his slaves to honor the god he worshipped,” Solas continued, hushed. “Thus, the slaves marked with Falon’Din’s vallaslin were the ones sacrificed to him. Blood magic was powerful and desirable even then.”

“None of the clans must know,” Lavellan said suddenly, fiercely. “It would destroy them, to know the vallaslin’s true purpose. And to know that the Inquisitor has the brands of a slave…” He chuckled darkly, a bit choked as he thought of the implications of that. Best not to dwell.

“I know a spell,” Solas told him. “To take the vallaslin away –”

“No,” Lavellan said shortly. “It is a part of me, and despite what it represents, it also represents the life I left behind after the Conclave.” He stood. “Besides…Ghilan’nain was not a cruel goddess. Not like Andruil or even Mythal. Surely there were few blood rituals in her name.”

Solas gazed at him, thoughtful. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But do not forget what she did to the hunter who wronged her. She was not above acts of vengeance.”

Lavellan raised his chin a little higher, almost showing off the vallaslin. “Neither am I,” he said.

*

After visiting and questioning Solas (and not getting very good answers), he went to his quarters on his way to the War Room – Nira had been in there for a whole evening by herself, which would be worrying except that she’d nearly passed out last night. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was still asleep.

But when he opened the door, he was met with a very unwelcome surprise.

The curtains were smoldering, badly burnt with holes riddling them, and the door to Nira’s little room was reduced to a heap of firewood. With growing horror, Lavellan saw that the door to the balcony was open, and as he edged closer, he saw a small reddish dragon perched atop the balcony railing, wings outspread shakily, her head lowered as she looked down at the courtyard far, far below as if searching for something – or someone. His heart stopped.

“Nira!” he cried, stumbling towards her. She jerked, startled, turning to look at him, but it was too late – her claws scrabbled against the stone and she slipped, shrieking as she fell, wings beating the air as she desperately tried to right herself. Lavellan shouted and peered over the railing – she was falling faster and faster, more like a stone than a feather.

Frantically, Lavellan went to the edge, eying the gap between him and the ramparts. Well…he’d jumped off higher things and survived (there were a lot of cliffs on the Storm Coast, okay?). So he leapt, landing heavily and running to the roof of the nearest building, well aware that he was garnering attention from the ground.

Lavellan imagined Dorian screaming at him from the mage tower as he flung himself from the rooftops and onto the top of the tavern, sliding and slipping down the shingles with a scraped knee and a hiss. He managed to roll when he landed, like Heir had taught him to (although much less skillfully than he would have liked).

Cassandra came running. “Inquisitor! What’s going on?”

“Nira…” he panted, searching the sky desperately, heart pounding as he came up short. “She…she fell, she –”

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talkin’ about!” Bull bellowed from the training grounds, with a wide-eyed Krem at his side, swords forgotten in favor of the dragon gleefully wheeling and diving over the castle courtyard, spitting plumes of flame into the air. Several Orlesian nobles loitering around shrieked and covered their heads. One of the blacksmiths dropped the pile of new swords he was carrying with a resounding clatter.

Lavellan gaped. “Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s um…that’s new.”

Cassandra made a noise somewhere in between appalled and impressed.

Blackwall came out of the tavern with Sera close at his heels, confused. “What’s this ruckus about – oh. Er, nevermind. Inquisitor, I hope you know what you’re doing with that beast.” And he promptly went down the courtyard stairs to go tell fake Warden stories to the horses, or whatever it was that he did these days. Lavellan didn’t like him very much. But he was more use fighting for the Inquisition than dangling from the gallows.

Sera, on the other hand, was a sight for sore eyes. She hooted joyfully and practically skipped over to Lavellan, peering up at the dragon with unadulterated awe. “Friggin’ majestic, she is,” Sera breathed.

Cassandra grunted noncommittally. “I doubt you’ll think so after seeing a pile of dragon shit bigger than a house.”

Sera just looked even more fascinated. “You saw that? Shit, that’s a lotta shit! Wonder if we could make a potion with that, huh? Forget Jar of Bees, hit ‘em with House of Dragon Shit and they’re toast!”

“Ugh,” Cassandra said.

Lavellan rolled his eyes, though in truth he was only half-listening to them. Part of him was worried and anxious as he watched Nira soar for the first time, but…there was no denying how _right_ it looked, as if she were meant to sail the skies forever. Her body twisted with serpentine grace, wings fully spread and vibrantly gold where the sun shone through them, the membrane thin enough to see the spider web of delicate veins just below the surface.

In the air, dragons looked far more fragile, and yet far more dangerous, too. If she had the range for it, Nira could roast them all where they stood with a single glance down and a well-placed flame. But she did not. She seemed playful rather than predatory, hardly sparing a look for the small crowd gathered below her.

Nira opened her mouth as if to roar mightily, but all that came out was a thin screech and a weak jet of fire. She was getting dangerously close to one of the trees – although she’d figured out how to get herself airborne, clearly she was still working on the steering part. Her tail, too short and stubby for the task, flailed around wildly, and in an instant she went from beautiful and graceful to panicking and floundering.

“Nira!” Lavellan called up to her. “Come down before you hurt yourself!”

“As if scolding a child,” Cassandra muttered, but to everyone’s surprise except Lavellan, Nira actually heard him and _listened_ ; diving towards the sound of his voice and trying to pull up for a smoother landing in an ungainly flap of wings that ended in her tumbling safely but clumsily back to earth.

Lavellan stroked a hand over her head and she chirped and rubbed her shoulders against his knees affectionately, snorting steam and shaking out her (probably rather sore) wings. “You missed me, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, cupping one scaled jaw and looking into rich golden eyes. “That’s why you burnt down the door and tried to jump – you were looking for me.”

Nira blinked once, slowly, nudging her muzzle forward into his palms. He held it, the head that was at least three hand-spans wide now, thinking of how strange it was to hold so much power, so much danger, so close. Her jaws were lined with teeth meant to tear, to kill; her throat filled with fire hotter than any other, and yet she kept those weapons locked safely away. Was this how mages felt? Always with a promise of destruction inside of them, making the choice either to control it or simply…let go.

He tried to imagine Nira as one of the savage high dragons they’d killed, and found he couldn’t quite do it. Her mother may have been the Abyssal High Dragon, but…they were so different. Perhaps the answer lay in her mysterious other parent. Lavellan slid a thumb over the gold markings on Nira’s horns, and wondered. He had never seen a golden dragon before.

Sera squatted down next to him and Nira’s wings raised in warning. Lavellan didn’t blame Sera for shuffling backwards nervously – since she was easily the size of a wolf, Nira’s threat was not idle. “Shhh,” Lavellan tried, petting her neck. “Sera is a friend. Good. Safe.” Nira’s head swiveled back to the other elf, and then she padded forward and sniffed Sera’s leg, nostrils flaring. She seemed to like whatever she found, because she let out a content whuff and sat down at Sera’s feet.

“Whoa,” Sera squeaked, staying completely still although her face betrayed her mix of fear and excitement. “She understands you!”

“No,” Lavellan murmured. “It’s just…tone of voice, I think. She likes soft sounds.”

“Soft?” Sera wrinkled her nose. “What _sounds_ soft?”

Lavellan said it without thinking. “Asha’lan.”

It was a soft word, or so he thought. Roughly, it meant ‘daughter.’ Child. Blood of mine. But Nira seemed to hear something entirely different, for she tensed and turned to look at him immediately, a spark in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before. Sera scrambled back, looking at him with bewilderment. “What’d you say, Inquisitor? What elfy shit did you say; because she definitely understood you that time!”

Lavellan swallowed. “Asha’lan?” he repeated.

Nira…cooed. That was the only word for it. She padded up to him, bowed her head, and cooed as a pleased baby might. Sera shook her head. “Uh-uh, Inquisitor. No. That was weird. Your dragon is _elfy_.”

Cassandra approached cautiously. “Inquisitor…try saying something else.”  
“Uh…” Lavellan wracked his brain. He wasn’t _fluent_ , okay? “Ara da’isenatha,” he tried. _My little dragon._ Seemed appropriate enough. But as soon as the word for dragon fell from his lips, Nira shivered violently, and if Lavellan didn’t know any better he would say she almost glowed for just a moment, an unnatural flash of light on her golden scales.

“No, nuh-uh, nope,” Sera said, rising to her feet hastily. “I’m outta here. I don’t do weird. This is weird! You’re weird!” And with that, she left. Lavellan stared helplessly after her, with Nira still practically kneeling at his feet.

Cassandra folded her arms. “Perhaps we should speak to Solas about this. He seems to know much about the elves from the time they spoke Elvhen.”

Lavellan frowned, not keen to have a second conversation with Solas. One per day was enough. “We still speak it. We’re _trying_ , anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I didn’t mean to…” Cassandra sighed and leaned down, towards Nira. “I wonder if she responds to other languages. Nevarran, perhaps?”

“You could try,” Lavellan said doubtfully.

Cassandra reached out slightly. “Kaels, balaur.”

Nira whirled at the new voice, but she did not approach Cassandra as she had with Sera. Instead she began to growl, wings and tail raised again, curling close against Lavellan as if trying to shield him. Cassandra backed off, puzzled. “I’d say she doesn’t like that,” Lavellan remarked.

Cassandra looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it is not just Nevarran…see, even now she doesn’t react to the Common Tongue the way she does when you speak Elvhen. It is…instinctive.”

“Could it have something to do with her father?”

“Her sire?” Cassandra’s brow furrowed. “Oh, right…I did mention the trophy that looked rather like her. But Inquisitor, that was a high dragon. A female. All male dragons are…not nearly as formidable. They’re wingless, relatively small, and almost never leave the female’s side. Unless she eats them.”

“Oh,” Lavellan said, gulping and looking down at the female dragon nuzzling his thigh, resisting the urge to edge away. “That sounds…unpleasant.”

Cassandra shrugged. “Dragons are a matriarchal species. It is just the way of things. But…since we did not see the sire after defeating the Abyssal High Dragon, I think it is safe to assume that she really did go mad, and killed her own mate.”

“Hm.” Lavellan was unconvinced. “Well, I suppose you’re the expert here, Lady Pentaghast.” He grinned at her peeved expression.

“You should secure your dragon and make your way to the War Room soon, Inquisitor,” Cassandra retorted. “The apostate from the Winter Palace, Morrigan, claims to know what Corypheus’s next move is.”

“That does sound rather important,” Lavellan admitted reluctantly, wondering how he was going to steer Nira all the way back to his quarters. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “No rest for the wicked, I suppose.”

“You will be able to rest later tonight, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said with unexpected sympathy, and Lavellan tried to keep a straight face. Oh, Creators. If only she knew. On second thought, probably better that she didn’t know, ever. And then, as if proving that the universe was against him, Cassandra added, “Oh. Hello, Cole.”

“Hello.” Cole was holding a nug and had an entire bunch of grapes sticking out of his pocket. Lavellan had just learned not to ask.

Lavellan smiled tightly at him, trying to signal with his eyes that the spirit should definitely not say anything about what was going on in his head right now. But Cole either didn’t see, didn’t understand, or didn’t care, because he murmured, “Dark. Lines on his skin, pain in his chest, afraid. Why are you afraid, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan coughed. “I’m not, Cole. Just uneasy about everything that’s been happening. Hey, why don’t you go see if Flissa needs –”

“But you are,” Cole whispered, eyes wide and imploring, trying so hard to understand. “Death. You…aren’t afraid to die, but you’re afraid to leave them alone, afraid to leave _him_ , incense, gold, rum –”

Cassandra’s cheeks were pink. “I, ah, should be going?”

Lavellan exhaled hard. “Marvelous idea, Cassandra.”

She left. Cole looked distraught. “I did something wrong. I just want to help. Let me help.”

Maybe Lavellan should’ve listened to Varric about the whole amulet thing. Too late now, though. “It’s alright, Cole,” he said quietly. “Just…please keep my thoughts to yourself. Or, better yet, to myself.”

“What about her thoughts?”

Lavellan blinked. “Whose? Cassandra’s?”

Cole shook his head solemnly and pointed at Nira. “Hers.”

Lavellan stared at him. “You…can hear her thoughts? But…she’s not…”

“Human,” Cole murmured. “Bad. Humans everywhere. But not you. Soft. Sweet. Good. Safe. Familiar…” He trailed off.

“You can hear all that?”

“Not really,” Cole admitted. “No words…just feelings. Instincts.”

“Does…does she have emotions? Like a person?” Lavellan asked.

Cole smiled; a strange, misshapen expression that he had clearly not practiced enough. “She is happy,” he said. He furrowed his brow in concentration. “She feels…loyalty. I think? And love. Yes.”

Lavellan flushed. Nira was snuffling around in the dirt, claws scraping at the turf with interest. “Love?” he repeated, baffled. But when he looked up again, Cole was already gone.

*

Well, at least the War Table meeting was eventful.

For starters, Leliana’s people had gotten tabs on Corypheus’s troop movements – they were scouting into the Wilds, which was…odd, to say in the least. And then Morrigan had flat-out interrupted Cullen’s suggestion to send troops of their own, ignored Josephine’s protests, and whisked Lavellan out to the garden, into a secret room, and through a magical mirror.

Maybe eventful was not a strong enough word. Fucking strange might be a better description.

“This is an eluvian,” Morrigan said calmly, as if she were reporting the weather instead of standing inside some…alternate dimension full of bowl-shaped trees and opaque mirrors that more closely resembled gravestones. “It’s an Ancient elvhen artifact, from a time long before their empire was lost to human greed. As I’m sure you know all too well.”

Lavellan shrugged, eying their surroundings nervously. Everything was wreathed in thick, bluish mist. “Empires rise and fall,” was all he said. He wasn’t sure how else to say he didn’t have much love for the Ancient elves after his recent discovery in the tomb.

Morrigan gave him an incredulous look. “Surely the loss of Arlathan and the tyranny of Tevinter troubles you, Inquisitor –”

“Lots of things trouble me,” Lavellan muttered. “Mostly things happening in the present that are actually still relevant. Anyway. Please continue, Lady Morrigan.”

“Yes, Inquisitor…as I was saying, this is an eluvian, one that I restored at great cost. There are other such eluvians, scattered about this world, and one of them lies deep within the Arbor Wilds, in an elvhen temple. I believe this is what Corypheus seeks.”

Lavellan frowned, taking a step forward and trying not to recoil at the feeling of the still, cold, unnatural air on his skin. “Right,” he said. “But…what is this place? How would this be useful to Corypheus at all? You said it led somewhere, but where are we? It doesn’t feel like the Fade. Not…exactly.”

She seemed pleased by his observation. “No, it is not the Fade, but…it is it very close. I call it the Crossroads, a place where all eluvians join, created by the oldest, strongest magic in Thedas.”

“The Ancient elves left no roads,” Lavellan whispered, his voice echoing eerily. “They used the eluvians to travel?”

“We can only assume,” Morrigan replied, walking towards one of the dark mirrors, running her fingertips over the intricately filigreed frame. “As you can see, many of the eluvians are unusable – corrupted or broken. But…a few can be opened from this side.”

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why Corypheus wants one? To travel easily? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Not quite.” Morrigan shook her head. “I said it was _almost_ the Fade. Someone with enough power – someone like Corypheus – could tear down the ancient barriers the elves built and enter the Fade in the flesh.”

“He could reach the Black City, like he wanted to,” Lavellan muttered. “And we can’t have that. I see.”

And then he saw something else. Just a flicker of movement in the distance, a vague silhouette and a flash of glowing eyes, but it startled a curse out of him. Alarmed, Morrigan squinted in the direction he was staring, a hand flying to her staff. “Inquisitor? What’s wrong?”

“There was…we are not alone,” he hissed, stalking forward, feeling incredibly bare and vulnerable with just a small knife at his hip. The dry breeze stroked his face almost mockingly, and he could have sworn it carried laughter with it. The mirror the figure had passed in front of was dark, but Lavellan laid a palm over the cool surface as if to make sure. It was like touching bone; there was no life left in it. He turned away hastily, dust and mist gathering around his ankles, spreading long tendrils across the gray suggestion of earth.

There it was again, across the way, taunting him, a shadow in the far reaches of this world between worlds – yet he knew with certainty that it was an elf, or it had been once. A mage, too, if the sudden crackle of energy could be trusted. “Did you feel that?” he asked, and Morrigan frowned. “It was as if someone cast a spell…”

“No, Inquisitor,” she said, sounding a bit irritable. “It is likely just your mind playing tricks on you. This is a lost place, one that few have access to.”

“But others do have access,” Lavellan pressed. The shadow melted away into the mist.

She pursed her lips. “What is it that you see, Inquisitor?”

“An elf,” he said. “Made of, um…shadows?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I find that difficult to believe.” Her gaze sharpened, considering. “But not impossible. Who knows, Inquisitor? The ghosts of the Ancients may still linger here.”

Lavellan nodded, but he suspected it was less about them lingering here and more about them following him. He shivered, and went gratefully back to the land of the living with Morrigan, trying and failing to convince himself that the creature he’d seen hadn’t been the same one from his dream.

*

“You seem tense.”

Lavellan scoffed and stretched against the sheets, watching Dorian practically circle the bed with hungry eyes fixed solely on him. Lavellan had taken it upon himself to be proactive and get naked sooner rather than later, and so far he wasn’t regretting the decision at all. He was also pleased to note that Dorian’s clothes didn’t look half as complicated to remove as they’d been last night (probably an intentional choice).

“Hm,” Lavellan said, lifting up slightly, making a show out of rolling over onto his front, back bared to Dorian. “Maybe I need a massage. I do feel a little…sore.” He grinned at the mage over his shoulder, rolling his shoulders and his hips with them.

Dorian folded his arms, smirking. “Now you’re just being cruel.”

He shrugged. “You could be cruel too, you know.” Dorian’s gaze darkened, surprise flickering across his features, and Lavellan waited to see what would happen, to see if Dorian would play along. Last night had been…nice, but more drunken and fumbling than Lavellan would have wanted. They were going to do this right, and damned if Lavellan wasn’t going to take whatever Dorian wanted to give him.

Dorian wordlessly started undoing the straps of his tunic, and Lavellan smiled smugly, resting his head against one of the pillows and waiting patiently, desire building higher every time a buckle clicked or leather rustled. He let his breath out through his teeth when warm palms slid across his ass, the bed dipping with Dorian’s weight. Lavellan lifted his head, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. Dorian paused and tilted his head, his own eyes soft and wanting, just like his hand as it slipped underneath Lavellan’s body and covered his cock.

Lavellan’s hips jerked forward into Dorian’s grip and then back against Dorian’s cock, snug against his inner thigh. “Fuck,” he whispered, nodding quickly and dragging Dorian closer, kissing him hard. “Mm. Do you have…did you bring –”

Dorian chuckled, snatching something up from the folds of the sheets. A small bottle, one Lavellan had seen hanging on his hip most days of the week. Dorian seemed to read his mind, smothering Lavellan’s disbelieving laughter with another kiss. “I’m always prepared,” he said primly. “And it has other uses, too. Like this.” With that, Dorian upended nearly the whole thing on Lavellan’s back. He definitely did _not_ let out a very undignified yelp, thank you very much.

“Why is it freezing?!” he hissed, giving Dorian a half-hearted (but curious) glare. “And just what do you think you’re – oh.” The cold oil quickly became warm and then verging on hot when Dorian pressed his hands down against it, magic putting the oil to its apparently intended use.

“Ohh. Okay. Yes. This is…mmph.” Lavellan let his head fall against the pillow, arching up into Dorian’s touch. The mage was apparently intent on actually giving him a massage, although judging by his wandering hands; it was going to be over very soon. Lavellan couldn’t complain, especially when fingers crept down his spine, spreading heat everywhere. Really, he wondered why he hadn’t bedded a mage before. Yet another affirmation that siding with the mages and freeing them had definitely been the right choice.

Vivienne probably would have frozen him solid for even thinking that. He had no regrets.

And when Dorian found his mark – one slick hand on his cock and the other with three fingers curled inside of him – he lost the ability to think, much less regret, anything at all.

Lavellan’s breaths came faster, and he might have been begging but he was too far gone already to care, grinding back into Dorian frantically and moaning at every twist of fingers and the rhythm of his hand. “Dorian,” he gritted out, “now, fenedhis, I’m ready, I’m –”

Dorian’s voice, so close to his ear, low and thick with arousal, stilled him. “I thought you said I could be cruel too?” he murmured, teasing but with an undercurrent of…concern? Whatever it was, it made Lavellan whimper and push up against him again, gasping when Dorian forced him back down, holding him there easily. Oh, it shouldn’t have turned him on as much as it did. But the sound he made drew a groan from Dorian, who kissed his neck with a sting of teeth and then he was grabbing his hips, lining up and Lavellan bit down on his cheek to stifle his noises, drawing blood.

It hadn’t even been that long and yet Dorian had him squirming in seconds, everything a mess of oil and sweat already. The man certainly wasn’t _gentle_ in his approach to sex, but Lavellan hadn’t expected this steady, torturous shifting of bodies, rhythmic and unrelenting yet slow enough as to be agony.

A thousand things went through his head – mainly the scandal this would cause if word got out, due the fact that arguably one of the most powerful people in Thedas was currently getting fucked by a Tevinter mage. Actually, thinking about that just made the whole situation even more satisfying. Lavellan groaned said Tevinter mage’s name with great enthusiasm and shoved back against him, Dorian’s grip on him tightening, lips finding Lavellan’s mouth with a pleased hum.

Everything dissolved into fuzzy, full pleasure, and after a while Dorian’s hold on him seemed more tender than firm, like he was getting distracted or desperate or both. Lavellan could relate, twisting up languidly, baring his neck and closing his eyes.

“Maker, look at you,” Dorian whispered, and for a moment Lavellan wished he could, wished that there was a mirror above his headboard so he could see them both like this, Dorian would probably love that, the vain bastard –

“What did you just call me?” Dorian huffed, and Lavellan’s choked, unapologetic giggles were smothered in the pillow as Dorian held him down with more than just strength, force magic immobilizing him, sending a jolt of fear and need through him that coalesced into climax. Dorian moved faster, cursing in a string of silky Tevene as he came, his final hard thrust making Lavellan cry out and collapse against the sheets, spent. The magic’s hold broke, and his arms trembled from the effort of holding himself up for so long.

Dorian covered his body, oddly comforting, nuzzling at his jaw, kissing the edge of the vallaslin. “Still sore?”

Lavellan yawned. “Good kind of sore, now.”

“Close enough,” Dorian decided, and he was leaning down to kiss Lavellan again when his eyes suddenly flew wide and he shrieked, literally shrieked, legs kicking out reflexively. A furious, feral growl filled the room.

Lavellan blinked. “What the –”

Dorian sat up with a pained grunt and a spell glowing in his hands, turning to look. Lavellan gaped. Nira was crouched at the end of the bed, hackles raised and teeth bared – teeth which she had apparently just sunk into Dorian’s calf. Dorian swallowed and edged away and she followed the movement with blazing golden eyes. It was easy to believe she was a predator then. Lavellan glanced to her door – oh, right; there was no door anymore, thanks to Nira’s flaming tantrum earlier today. She must have been sleeping when Lavellan’s shout woke her up. Well, shit.

“Please don’t set Dorian on fire,” Lavellan entreated.

Nira’s head swiveled to him. She tilted it, confused, nostrils flaring – and suddenly Lavellan thought he understood. He touched the blood on his lip (which she could surely smell) and reevaluated the way Dorian’s body covered his; the way she’d struck out at him only once. Even now she was on the defensive. Protective – towards Lavellan. Because she thought Dorian was _attacking him._

Laughter, completely inappropriately, bubbled up from Lavellan’s chest, and then he was doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Oh, Creators,” he chortled. “Nira, he’s not trying to kill me.”

Dorian looked positively alarmed. “Wait, what?” He was still clutching his leg, holding off on the healing magic because every time his hand so much as sparked, Nira’s growls increased in volume. “How did you possibly get that impression?” Nira snarled in reply and he winced. He was bleeding all over the blankets. That was going to be hard to explain.

Lavellan was really going to have to make up for this rudely interrupted afterglow later.

He rolled his eyes and got out of bed, pulling on a tunic and approaching Nira with outstretched palms. “Come here,” he said, and she gave Dorian one last distinctly distrustful look before hopping off the bed and padding over, winding around his legs and nudging his hip fretfully. “All good, see?” He knelt down so that their eyes were level, curling a hand around her ears and stroking them soothingly. She purred.

Soft green light illuminated the room, and Nira turned again, tense and facing Dorian, who seemed intent on healing himself before he even had a chance to scar. Lavellan petted her head, standing again. “Dorian is good,” he told her. “Safe.” Then, recalling the encounter in the courtyard, he repeated it in Elvhen. “Dareth.” Her eyes narrowed, her tail lashed, stubborn. Cole had said she thought humans were bad. But Lavellan was not human, and neither was Sera, whom Nira had also taken a liking to.

Dorian, however…

“Dorian, are you alright?” Lavellan called. Dorian gave him a look.

“Oh, just fine, don’t mind me, a fucking dragon just took a chunk out of my leg but other than that –”

“Come here, then.”

Dorian gawked at him. “To the aforementioned dragon? No thank you!”

“She won’t hurt you again,” Lavellan promised. “Not if you come here.”

Dorian sighed but gave up and tugged on his pants (incredibly, even Dorian Pavus didn’t feel comfortable nude around a dragon) before complying, warily kneeling beside Lavellan with a small wince. Nira started to growl again, but Lavellan shushed her. Dorian sniffed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Do you know any Elvhen?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian chuckled nervously. “Ah…halla? No.”

“Dareth,” Lavellan murmured. “Say that to Nira.”

“What does it –”

“Just say it.”

Dorian sat back on his heels resignedly. “Dareth,” he repeated. Nira shuffled forward, bewildered and inquisitive at the same time. “Uh. Dareth? Lavellan, what am I saying? What is she – kaffas.” The dragon rested her head on his knee, claws scraping the stone floor. She scented the air, no, scented his skin, ears flicking, and then backed away, distinctly less anxious. Her wings fluttered, folded close to her sides, head bowing and eyes blinking solemnly. Then Nira went back to her room without a door, curling up in her too-small bed and going to sleep again, just like that.

Lavellan rose, leaning against a bedpost. “She knows you’re safe now,” he said. He looked away, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry about…” He flailed his hand in a gesture meant to signify mauling by baby dragon. Dorian touched his shoulder and he flinched. “Sorry,” Lavellan whispered.

Dorian just shook his head. “Trust me, I’ve had worse interruptions.” He wrinkled his nose and didn’t meet Lavellan’s eyes. “And not many other liaisons that were worth getting mauled for.” Lavellan flushed and pretended the warmth he felt in his chest was just from the flattery.

“Yes, well,” Lavellan muttered, “I’ve never had a baby dragon before. I’m still figuring it out. But…perhaps it would be safer to continue in your quarters from now on?”

Dorian smirked. “Oh, I don’t know…I like the view from up here.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Lavellan grinned, exasperated yet pleased. “I’m sure we can find a compromise, then.”

Dorian cast a glance back at Nira, though this time it was more fond than fearful. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sure we can.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, the trespasser dlc made me die a little inside! it was incredible, though, and you should play it if you haven't already.
> 
> enjoy!

“So, what’s your consensus, Professor?”

Frederic coughed nervously and pushed his spectacles farther up his pockmarked, beaklike nose. (He’d finally taken that mask off, and Lavellan saw why he’d bothered to wear it in the first place.) “Well, ah…Inquisitor, you must understand that…this is all very, very new to me.”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “Dragons are new to you? I thought you’d been studying them for years.”

“Ah…yes, but…not like this. Not up close.” Frederic glanced at Nira, who was blinking sleepily at them from the examination table. Frederic had given her something to calm her (once Lavellan had made absolutely certain the man wasn’t still entertaining thoughts of dissection), and she kept blowing lazy smoke rings that filled the room in a thick haze. Frederic wiped his watering eyes hastily. “But I do have some observations that I believe may be of use to you.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.” 

Frederic frowned, running a careful hand over Nira’s back. “She requires more space, Inquisitor. The spare room is simply too small for her – she needs a more open area where she may fly about as she wishes. Otherwise, I fear her development will be hindered.”

“Her development…and how long will that take, exactly?”

“She is growing at a remarkable pace, Inquisitor,” he murmured. “Not entirely surprising, since dragonlings make easy prey if they stay at such a small size for long. But…I predict she may triple in size within several months. It will take many more years for her to reach the same size as her mother, however…as I said, this is quite new to me.”

“So she will become more and more dangerous,” Lavellan mused, a bit sad. Despite the certain hilarity of Nira biting Dorian when she did, there was a graveness to the situation too. She was capable of hurting people; he had always known that. But seeing the blood on her teeth had been very different than simply knowing. And she had done that – hurt someone – for _him_. It was somehow both a frightening and comforting thought.

“Yes, about that,” Frederic continued, “her breed of dragon still continues to elude me! The Ferelden Frostback had yellow markings, true, but hers are _golden_. We do not see such metallic colors on dragons, Inquisitor! They would be highly inept at hunting with the sun glinting off of every scale as they flew, would they not? And yet, your Nira is something very, very new.” He hesitated, fingers lingering on the protruding horns lining her jaw.

“What is it?” Lavellan asked, frowning at Frederic’s apprehensive expression. 

Frederic swallowed. “You remember, Inquisitor, when I first met your dragon and said she was a fire dragon…but with something else mixed in?”

“Yes,” Lavellan said. “But I spoke to Cassandra, and she explained that male dragons aren’t anything like high dragons and –”

Frederic held up a hand, still looking troubled. “Yes, Inquisitor, I am well aware of drakes and their relative inferiority. However, your Nira is not just a fire dragon – and the other type, whatever it may be, had to have been passed down by the father.”

“Whatever it may be?” Lavellan folded his arms. “You still have no idea what it is? And how do you even know she’s anything other than a fire dragon – she breathes fire; that’s it.”

Frederic shook his head. “There is something else,” he insisted. He pressed two fingers to the soft spot on Nira’s throat. She gurgled sleepily, swiping at him with a paw halfheartedly and missing by a mile. “All dragons have a gland here which somehow helps them to produce their elemental weapons. Nira is no exception…but…”

“Yes?”

Frederic took Lavellan’s hand and touched it to the side of Nira’s skull, just behind her ears. “Do you feel it? There are two more glands just like the first, one on each side. No fire dragons I have examined had others. In fact, no dragons I have ever studied had the glands there – they are always on the throat, which is most useful since they are, well, breath weapons.”

Lavellan furrowed his brow. There were, in fact, two raised bumps under the thin layer of scales covering her head. “What are you saying? That this…isn’t a breath weapon? What is it, then…a mind weapon?”

Frederic nodded. “It is an interesting idea, Inquisitor. I have long hypothesized that dragons, like mages, have a special connection to the Fade which allows them to use their fire, ice or electricity. Perhaps – and this is pure speculation – she has a different connection than most? A more…mental connection. More like a mage than a dragon. More controlled, dare I say?”

Lavellan tilted his head, intrigued. “Raw, primal force,” he murmured. “So. If she has another breath weapon…how and when will it manifest?”

Frederic shrugged helplessly. “I am afraid I must admit defeat, Inquisitor. I haven’t the slightest idea!”

Lavellan sighed. “In that case…I suppose we just hope her other power isn’t creating huge explosions or anything like that. One massive explosion a year is plenty.”

Frederic gave him a horrified look.

“Too soon?”

“I believe so, Inquisitor.”

“Right. Sorry. Anyway, about her needing more space…”

*

So it was that the empty watch tower was renovated to become a proper not-so-little nest for a not-so-little dragon. The rotting beams on the roof were removed, leaving a half-open top for Nira to come and go as she pleased. Josephine fretted about Nira flying off one day, never to be seen again, but Lavellan wasn’t worried. Solas’s theory that she had imprinted on him seemed likelier every day. And there were many, many days that passed, both in Skyhold’s secure walls and in the tumultuous world outside. 

Corypheus and his soldiers continued to search aimlessly in the Wilds. Lavellan made himself useful elsewhere – tying up the loose ends in Emprise du Lion, clearing all the ramparts in the Exalted Plains, staying far away from the Western Approach, and even finding a strange helmet covered in flowers in the Emerald Graves. 

Cassandra and Bull fought over it while Dorian rolled his eyes with feigned disgust, claiming he was allergic to flowers. Deciding to test that theory, Lavellan made a daisy chain for him later, and it was worth it for the spectacular shade of red the mage turned (and Cassandra’s confused, uncontrollable giggles). Dorian gave him a look, but Lavellan just shrugged and stuck an extra daisy in the curl of Dorian’s mustache. Dorian was sneezing for the rest of the afternoon.

(Dorian got him back for it later that night. Lavellan decided he should make Dorian more daisy chains if it provoked that kind of reaction.)

Nira accompanied them infrequently on their missions – it was getting more difficult to bring her with them without attracting too much attention once she reached the size of a mature halla, with horns three times as sharp and a protective streak a mile wide. Besides, Lavellan didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Nira heard some…strange sounds coming from the forest around the camp at night and decided to investigate. 

Dorian wasn’t going to get mauled again, if Lavellan could help it, since dragon bites probably weren’t very pleasant, and…well, it might put an end to whatever it was that they were doing. Lavellan didn’t really have a name for it, for what they were, what Dorian was to him. Lovers implied an emotional attachment, and…Lavellan wasn’t sure there was much of that to be had. Oh, of course, they both cared for and trusted one another to a certain extent, but they were still simply friends. Friends who…had certain side benefits? Yes. That was it. 

But Lavellan couldn’t help but wonder, as the days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, how long it would continue – and what would happen when it inevitably ended. He wasn’t certain he would really be able to look back on this years from now and simply think to himself, “Ah, yes, Dorian Pavus. Such a good friend. Oh, and there were those several dozen times we fucked – what good fun that was.”

It _was_ fun. And Dorian proved himself to be a very good friend and a very good person, time and time again. But sometimes Lavellan caught himself lingering too long in a kiss, or sneaking looks at Dorian over the campfire, or holding onto him a bit tighter than necessary. He had fooled around plenty when he’d been with the Dalish, yes – simple, fleeting escapades into the woods or hasty encounters with neighboring clans – but those had been relatively few and far between.

Dorian, however…he had definitely slept around far more, both here and in Tevinter. The man was terribly used to casual and clandestine, and for all Lavellan knew he could still be bedding Skyhold’s soldiers with his usual frequency. That shouldn’t have bothered Lavellan as much as it did. Why did it bother him?

These were the things he thought about in what was supposed to be the blissful afterglow of sex, with Dorian shifting unsteadily atop him and damp grass tickling his bare body. Dorian’s hand found his jaw, and then they were kissing, and Lavellan finally found some peace in those moments. Dorian pulled him up into his lap, leaning back against a nearby tree and stretching lazily. Lavellan yawned and snatched up his discarded cloak, throwing it over their bodies and snuggling into it (and Dorian).

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable,” Dorian protested, wriggling and halfheartedly nudging at his shoulder. “We should get back to camp, and you’re crushing me.”

Lavellan snickered. “Crushing you? Didn’t you say earlier that I was light as a feather and you could toss me around however you wanted –”

“Ugh,” Dorian said. “Using my own words against me, I see how it is.”

“To be fair, you were using them against me rather literally.” 

Dorian snorted. “Terrible. That was terrible, and you should be ashamed.” But he relaxed slightly and rested his head on Lavellan’s shoulder, sighing. “Your cloak _is_ quite warm. Perhaps we could stay just a little longer…”

“I don’t understand why you don’t like the Emerald Graves,” Lavellan remarked, arching contentedly when a soft brush of heat magic curled through the air, smoothing goosebumps and soothing sore muscles easily. “It’s beautiful here. And not that cold, either.” He tilted his head up, gazing at the velvet expanse of sky filled with silver stars, twinkling brightly down upon them. 

“’Not that cold,’ he says,” Dorian scoffed, but he paused thoughtfully. “I don’t know. This place is just…sad. It makes me feel guilty, to be quite honest.”

Lavellan frowned. “Why? For once, Tevinter isn’t to blame for any of this. The Exalted Marches were led by the Chantry, not magisters.”

“Ah, but Tevinter still had its part to play,” Dorian said ruefully. “Andraste led the first Exalted March against Tevinter, with Shartan and other escaped slaves as her allies. And those former slaves were given the Dales, were they not? If they had never been displaced to begin with…if Tevinter had just learned to stop conquering and destroying everything in its path…maybe things would be different. Maybe so many people – so many elves – wouldn’t have died, here or anywhere else.”

Lavellan furrowed his brow. “That’s not your fault, Dorian. I know that. I’m not holding you accountable for the mistakes of your ancestors, and neither should you.” He bit his lip, looking away. “Who knows; maybe my ancestors did horrible things, too.”

Dorian blinked. “Who, the Ancient elves? Everything recorded about them seems too good to be true. But one can always hope that it _was_ true, you know. Maybe they really were perfect.”

Lavellan swallowed, resisting the urge to touch his vallaslin. “Maybe,” he replied. 

Dorian squeezed his arm. “It is beautiful here, though. I will admit to that. Now, can we please go back to the tent? I think my arse is turning into a wonderfully sculpted icicle.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t want that. Let’s get you a feather-down bed and a mountain of blankets while we’re at it, shall we, your Highness?”

“Yes, please,” Dorian chuckled. “Maybe a freckled elf on top, too?” 

Lavellan shoved his chest, grinning. “You wish.”

He didn’t know what they had, but he liked it.

*

But the days were not all starlight and daisies. Far from it – Samson’s red lyrium operation in eastern Orlais seemed to be getting worse and worse, even after the Inquisition had raided and cleared Sahrnia Quarry in Emprise du Lion. Cullen had assumed that most of the production was coming from there, but the continued flow of red lyrium Templars throughout the Dales suggested there was another, more hidden stronghold. 

So as soon as Lavellan received word that Cullen had discovered something new, he broke his rule of one day’s rest and booked it to the Commander’s office, ignoring his tired feet and aching shoulders, sore from firing a ridiculous amount of arrows at a ridiculous amount of bears.

(And he threw on a scarf, while making a mental note to have a talk with Dorian later about how his fair skin did absolutely nothing to hide bruises.)

Lavellan crossed the courtyard and looked up at Nira’s tower, smiling to see her perched atop it, gazing down upon the stronghold proudly. Her wings spread, billowing out in the wind like gold and scarlet sails, her head lifting towards the clouds. His chest felt tight. If he had not fallen in that hole months ago, if he had not stopped Dorian…but he had, and he did not want to imagine what would have happened otherwise. 

It had taken time, but eventually the people of Skyhold seemed to regard her with a certain kind of respect, or perhaps awed fear. He’d overheard one of Leliana’s elven scouts saying that it made her feel like Mythal herself was watching over them. Lavellan wasn’t sure what to think of that. But he could see what she meant – all dragons had a strangely godlike quality. And he could certainly see it now – being lit from behind by the sun gave her a brilliant halo, a celestial glow that made her scales look like fire, wrapping her in the armor of a thousand glittering celestial flames.

Celestial flames? Fenedhis, he was spending too much time with Dorian. Or Varric. Or both. Lavellan wrinkled his nose and went up the stairs to the ramparts – it would be good to speak with Cullen. He couldn’t imagine the man saying anything that pretentious and flowery. 

Lavellan stepped into the quiet office, eyes falling upon the Commander who stood at the window, arms crossed. “You sent news?” he asked, and Cullen jumped a little, eyes wide as he turned. 

“Oh, Inquisitor. Yes. I…did not expect you to attend to it today, however. Since you’ve just returned from Verchiel…but I’m glad you’re here. It is rather important.”

Lavellan inclined his head. “I’m all ears, Commander.” 

Cullen tried not to laugh. It came out as an undignified snort. Lavellan smiled. It was good to see Cullen happy again.

“Apologies,” he chuckled. “Don’t lose that sense of humor. It’s…nice. I…” Cullen swallowed. “I wanted to thank you, Inquisitor. The pain comes and goes, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was before. You were right; I don’t need the lyrium to serve the Inquisition. And the more I see of the corruption red lyrium has caused…the less I regret my choice.”

“I’m glad,” Lavellan said sincerely. “Lyrium, red or not, can ruin people. As we’ve seen.” He tilted his head. “So. What did you find, Commander?”

Cullen furrowed his brow and took several papers from his desk. “We sent more soldiers to strengthen our hold on the Quarry, and a few of them found these. They’re letters from Samson…and they claim that he was making red lyrium from people. You mentioned that in your report?”

Lavellan frowned. “Yes, unfortunately. It was horrifying.”

“The Samson I knew would have never…” Cullen shook his head. “He’d done monstrous things, and we have to put an end to him. But there’s something else – something about red lyrium armor that was made for him. It must give him extraordinary power…and I fear we may not be able to stop him.”

“Then we destroy the armor,” Lavellan concluded. “Can we do that?”

“It seems to be the only way, however I haven’t the slightest idea as to how we could. Luckily, I spoke to Dagna – she’s started work on her red lyrium samples with Alexius’s help.”

“But…?”

“But she needs more details on the armor.” Cullen picked up another paper. “Which brings me to the most troubling discovery…more orders were found in the mine.” He looked away. “They mentioned Maddox. A name I did not expect to hear.”

“An old ghost of yours?” Lavellan asked. “Is he a Templar too?”

Cullen cringed. “Ah…no. The opposite, actually. He was a mage in Kirkwall’s Circle.”

“Was?”

“He was made Tranquil,” Cullen replied shortly. 

“Oh.” Lavellan blinked. “He was a blood mage, then?”

“No,” Cullen said, sounding pained. “He was…Maddox had a lover, also in the Circle, whom he was able to see very rarely. Samson was smuggling letters between him and his sweetheart…until he got caught, and cast out of the Order. Maddox and his lover were made Tranquil. I do not know what became of her, but…Maddox was a skilled craftsman of magical items. I thought he’d died in the rebellion, but I suppose…Samson must have saved him.”

Lavellan bit his lip, trying to push down the anger bubbling up inside of him. “I can’t believe he was made Tranquil over a few love letters. That’s ridiculous. And cruel.”

“Good words to describe Meredith,” Cullen said wearily. “She wielded the brand for far lesser offenses, believe me. I’m not proud of what happened in Kirkwall. But it did happen, and…well, now we are facing the fallout. Maddox must be the one making Samson’s armor, and maintaining it for him.”

“Perhaps we could use him as an ally?” Lavellan suggested. “Having an inside man would be great help.”

Cullen sighed. “I don’t know, Inquisitor. I’ve been around Tranquil for most of my life and never understood them. But one thing we can do is trace the rare and expensive supplies he must have used to create such strong enchantments.” 

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. “Samson’s armor might just lead us straight to his stronghold.”

“Precisely, Inquisitor.”

*

And that it did.

“Remind me again, why we’re wandering into a place called the Shrine of Dumat?” Dorian muttered, looking up at the ritual towers covered in Templar banners with a shudder. “I mean, you do know who Dumat is, yes?”

Bull shrugged. “A dragon god, right?”

Dorian gave him a despairing look. “He’s the most powerful Old God. The Dragon of Silence. Not a very nice fellow! We celebrate Funalis because of him? You know, the day of the _dead_?”

“You’re a necromancer,” Lavellan pointed out. “Why does that bother you?”

“Ugh,” Dorian grumbled. “Just know that if we accidentally invoke some ancient curse, I told you so.”

“Quiet,” Cullen said. “We have to worry about all those guards before we worry about ancient curses.”

“Nira could help with that,” Lavellan said. Nira, who had been prowling several steps behind Cassandra, raised her head at the sound of her name. “Come on, Nira.” He nodded to the others. “We’ll take care of the guards. You all clear out the main chamber and look for Maddox and Samson.”

Dorian huffed. “Don’t be such a martyr; you can’t take on six red Templars on your own –”

Lavellan ignored him and promptly went into stealth, Nira bounding after him as he jogged out of hiding and over to the first guard.

“Unbelievable,” Dorian snapped. “He is going to get himself ki –”

The ramparts were bathed in dragon flame and poisonous mist, with Lavellan darting up onto the ledges to rain down death from above. 

Cassandra folded her arms. “You were saying?”

*

By the time they found Maddox, Lavellan knew it was too late.

The Templars must have been warned of their arrival somehow, because the place was going up in flames and Maddox was slumped against a pillar overgrown with red lyrium, an ashen cast to his skin. He looked at them placidly, arms folded in his lap. “Hello, Inquisitor,” he said.

“You know me?” Lavellan whispered. Maddox just smiled blankly. Lavellan had seen few Tranquils, but this one unnerved him the most.

“Something’s wrong,” Cullen murmured. “Dorian, can you heal –”

“That would be a waste, Knight-Captain Cullen,” Maddox interrupted. Cullen visibly flinched at the use of his old title. “I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won’t be long now.”

Lavellan drew in a sharp breath. Maddox still smiled. “We’re just wanted to ask you questions, Maddox. About Samson and his armor.”

“I know,” he said. “I could not allow that.”

“So you poisoned yourself?” Dorian exclaimed. “Maker’s breath…”

“I destroyed the camp with fire,” he continued. “It was the best option. Our deaths gave Samson time to escape.”

“You would die for him?” Lavellan asked, disbelieving. “What about the fact that it was his fault you were made Tranquil? What about your lover in Kirkwall?”

Maddox’s expression did not change. “It was not his fault, but my own foolishness. And she escaped. I do not know where she is. It does not matter. I will die soon.”

“She escaped?” Cullen asked, bewildered.

“Yes, during the rebellion. She was not content with her Tranquility. She tried to reverse the Rite with a spirit.”

Cassandra gasped. “So what the Seekers said is true! It can be done?”

Maddox coughed, though it sounded more polite than suffering. “It did not work. She should not have meddled. The spirit changed. She changed.” He coughed again, blood splattering his robes. Maddox barely reacted. “She was lost. But I was given purpose, by Samson.” His head drooped, the already dull light in his eyes fading. “I…wanted to help…”

“Wait,” Lavellan said, but it was useless. Maddox went limp, head falling against his chest. A thin line of blood dribbled from his lips.

“Shit,” Iron Bull said simply. 

Cullen closed his eyes, and then stood. “We should check the camp – Maddox may have missed something.”

Lavellan stayed crouched, staring at the dead man. Where would his soul go, he wondered? “We can’t just leave him here,” he murmured. “He should be properly laid to rest.” 

“I’ll send someone to take care of it,” Cullen promised. 

Dorian nudged Lavellan. “Moping won’t bring him back. Not that he should be brought back – death would be preferable to Tranquility, I would think.”

Lavellan tensed, struck by an unknown and sudden emotion, and got to his feet. “He did not have to die,” was all he said before joining Cullen, who was holding up a piece of paper quizzically. 

“Samson left a note. For me. ‘Drink enough lyrium, and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry used us. You’re fighting the wrong battle. Corypheus chose me as his general, and his vessel of power.’” He crumpled the note angrily. “He’s gone mad, truly.”

“Wait. Vessel of power?” Lavellan asked. “What could that mean?”

“Nothing good,” Bull guessed. Dorian snorted. “Just a shot in the dark.”

Cassandra called them over from the next room. “There’s something here that the fire did not reach! A workspace with…tools, I believe? For…working lyrium?”

Cullen and Lavellan exchanged looks. “Time to head back to Skyhold,” Lavellan said. “We have a gift for Dagna.”

*

Dagna was unsurprisingly delighted, and only a day after their return she presented a rune to them in Cullen’s office. “The rune acts on the median fissures of lyrium to capitulate the weaker bonds and revitalize the intrasensory –”

“Summarize, please.”

“It’ll destroy Samson’s armor. He’ll be powerless,” Dagna said brightly.

“Finally, some good news,” Cullen said, relieved. “Inquisitor, we’ve done it.”

“Don’t forget me! I was up all night. Not that it was bad – this whole red lyrium thing is fascinating!” Dagna said.

Lavellan nodded at her gratefully. “I’ll speak to Flissa and see if she can make send some of those little cakes that you like. Just try not to make any of them explode this time?”

“You got it, Inquisitor!” she agreed, practically skipping from the room. 

There was a moment of silence.

“This was a victory,” Cullen said firmly. “We’ll find Samson, and when we do…your army stands ready, Inquisitor. For Samson, for Corypheus, for whatever you command.”

Lavellan smiled tightly. “Thank you, Commander.”

He hoped he never got used to the fact that hundreds of people were willing to die for him – and hundreds already had. He’d never wanted that, and he still didn’t.

*

That night, Lavellan barely gave Dorian a chance to undress before pushing him onto the bed and kissing him breathless. Dorian tried to laugh and make a joke, but Lavellan just made a frustrated noise and worked his hips harder against Dorian’s. It wasn’t long before the mage’s amused words dissolved into desperate moans, their kisses more teeth than tongue. 

Lavellan rushed with the oil, hissed at the expected pain, disregarded Dorian’s concern, and rode him until his breath came out in short, sharp gasps, back curving and head tilting back. He was _angry_ , yet did not know why, his mind a confusing haze of arousal and ache, Dorian’s hand on his cock like a punch to the gut.

Lavellan swore so colorfully his Keeper probably would have banished him. Dorian stroked his back soothingly and pulled him down, and Lavellan bit down on the soft skin of his throat, wrenching a startled curse from Dorian. Lavellan bit harder, until violet bloomed under his lips. He exhaled hard, panting, and Dorian seized the moment of stillness to flip them.

The bruise stained his skin darkly, a blatant mark of possession. And yet Dorian made no move to return the gesture as he usually did. Lavellan clung to him desperately, shivering and arching when lips brushed his ear and neck, gentler than usual. If it weren’t so absurd, he would have called it tender. 

He blamed the new angle, and not that, for his sudden climax. Dorian followed soon after, nuzzling against his collarbones. Lavellan stared at the ceiling. He wondered if the grain of the wood had always looked vaguely like a bird. 

“Do they make mages Tranquil in Tevinter?” he asked.

Dorian slowly raised his head, looking rather dazed. “I…what?”

Lavellan repeated himself.

Dorian rolled off of him. “Yes. Not as often as they are here, but yes. Mostly for political dissenters who are found guilty of blood magic with some conveniently incriminating evidence. Why?”

“Aren’t you a political dissenter?” Lavellan whispered.

Dorian laughed lightly. “Yes, but I am an exceedingly clever one. What, do you really think I would let them haul me off in chains to be branded like a –”

“Stop,” Lavellan said fiercely, curling against his side and closing his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Dorian asked softly, cupping his face.

“He killed himself,” Lavellan replied harshly, glaring. “It didn’t even occur to him to run or save himself or…he didn’t have a mind of his own. Like an empty shell. He was a person once. And…and someone just took that away from him. And the worst part? He didn’t even seen how wrong it was, afterwards. He just accepted it. They all just accept it. You would just accept it too, if it happened to you.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed. “We don’t know that,” he said. “And it’s not going to happen, anyway.”

“But if it did,” Lavellan pressed, “would you rather die?”

Dorian hesitated. “I…don’t know. Maddox’s lover…she tried to reverse it and Cassandra said there was a way to –”

“Maddox’s lover became an abomination.”

“He didn’t say that,” Dorian argued. “He just said the spirit changed her. But it was a spirit, not a demon. It could have been a spirit of faith, or compassion, or justice, and just passed those qualities on to her.”

“So you would rather be possessed, then?”

“I would rather be me, as I am now,” Dorian corrected. He sighed, pushing Lavellan’s hair away from his eyes fondly. “You have a good heart, Inquisitor,” he added. “But you needn’t take it upon yourself to agonize over everything. Some things – like Maddox and all the other Tranquil in the world – are out of your control.”

“But you’re not,” Lavellan whispered. 

“Perhaps not,” Dorian said. “But I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not letting anyone take this from me.” Fire, blue and painless, sprung from his fingertips, reflected in his eyes. “I promise.” Lavellan reached out, touching his hand, vibrant flames licking across pale skin. Dorian twined their fingers together, the fire glowing in their trapped palms. “Now, are you ready to apologize for the huge bruise you gave me that’s going to be impossible to cover up tomorrow?”

“No,” Lavellan replied cheekily, his anger dissipating when faced with Dorian’s playful expression. “I’m not sorry at all.”

Dorian made a sound of mock-outrage, trapping Lavellan under him once more. “Oh, you will be,” he vowed.

He had no idea how right he was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a day off yesterday so you all get the next chapter early!  
> next chapter will have more plot stuff in it, these last two have been more filler and i apologize. 
> 
> thank you for your support and regular comments, they're very encouraging and i appreciate all the love for my first (and best) inquisitor, echo. Some screenshots of him are here, so you can properly imagine his beautiful self: http://orig10.deviantart.net/718e/f/2015/258/c/d/screenshotwin32_0326_final_by_killjoyatheart-d99qb70.png  
> http://orig13.deviantart.net/7d14/f/2015/258/c/a/screenshotwin32_0686_final_by_killjoyatheart-d99qbao.png
> 
> thanks and enjoy!

Harvestmere ended with a definite shift in weather, the chill eastern winds sweeping through the Frostbacks all throughout the last couple weeks of the month. The first day of Firstfall would mark the Inquisition’s one and a half year anniversary, and although Josephine wanted to throw a little party, Leliana talked her out of it – Satinalia was in several weeks, and that called for a very big celebration. Josephine latched onto the idea eagerly – Antivans took Satinalia very seriously, apparently.

Lavellan’s twenty-sixth birthday was four days after Satinalia, but he said nothing about it – he didn’t see the need. He’d already have a party during the holidays, for one thing, and for another…he was loath to have these people pay more attention to him than they already did. He inwardly cringed at the thought of sycophantic Orlesians lining up in front of his throne ( _his_ throne, he still couldn’t quite believe that) with increasingly ridiculous and extravagant gifts for him. So he kept quiet.

But after a war meeting late one afternoon, Leliana pulled him aside afterwards and said, “So, someone’s birthday is coming up.”

Lavellan resisted the urge to groan. Of course she knew, somehow. “How did you…?”

She waved a hand. “I make it my business to know, Inquisitor. Anyway, I was thinking perhaps we could integrate your birthday into the Satinalia celebration –”

Lavellan’s adamant protest cut her off. “No!” She raised an eyebrow. “I…I mean, I don’t want…” He coughed. “I’d rather it not be a public event. That would be…unnecessary.”

She considered that, head tilted. “Very well, Inquisitor. Would you prefer a smaller celebration then, confined to the inner circle? I could ensure it was kept secret.”

Lavellan paused. That…actually sounded rather nice. “I would like that,” he replied. “If…if it’s not too much trouble.”

She gave him a rare smile. “Of course not, Inquisitor. It will be good to have some levity before we turn our focus to the Arbor Wilds.”

He smiled back, trying not to think of the impending danger. “Thank you.”

*

A week before Satinalia, the Inquisition received a message from Clan Lavellan.

Lavellan read it with a furrowed brow at the war table, smiling when he read his Keeper’s words, words of pride he certainly hadn’t expected from her. But his expression quickly darkened as he continued reading. “There are bandits attacking them,” Lavellan said, biting his lip. “Well-armed raiders, from the sounds of it. The Keeper says they may be forced to seek a new home, and asks that we help protect the clan.” He looked up at the advisors. “I know we don’t have many soldiers to spare, but…”

“Where are they located at the moment?” Leliana asked.

“A valley near Wycome.”

Cullen and Leliana exchanged troubled looks. “That is…far, Inquisitor,” Cullen admitted. “I suppose we could try to send support, though it would take a while.”

“There may be another solution,” Josephine said thoughtfully. “The Duke of Wycome is one of our allies, and I’m sure he would be happy to help defend both his city and your clan, Inquisitor. His aid would come more quickly than our troops.”

Lavellan inclined his head. “Thank you, Ambassador. I think that would be best.”  
“I will send a raven,” Josephine promised.

Lavellan thanked her again, and the meeting continued as usual.

*

After the disastrous Winter Palace uniforms and the realization that red was _not_ Lavellan’s color, Vivienne all but demanded that Lavellan accompany her to Val Royeaux for ‘a suitable outfit’ to wear at the Satinalia masquerade. Thankfully, Lavellan was saved from one on one bonding time with her when Dorian and Josephine readily agreed to come along. Lavellan was a bit lost about it all – a Dalish elf traveling with three high-class humans to go shopping sounded like the beginning of a bad joke.

By the time they reached the capital, Lavellan was all too happy to collapse into one of the beds in Madame de Fer’s summer villa for a much-needed nap, and was pleasantly surprised when Dorian joined him there after dinner. They were both too tired to do much else but kiss and rut and thoroughly make a mess of the expensive Royale Sea Silk sheets, but there was something comforting (and frighteningly familiar) about it all that soothed Lavellan’s nerves.

In fact, it was so terribly domestic that Lavellan half-expected Dorian to stay there until morning, curled against his back warmly, face tucked into his neck. But after what seemed like a long time, Dorian stretched and pulled away, dressing quickly and giving Lavellan a sideways smile. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scandal, would we?” was all he said before slipping out of the room, his shadow falling across the moonlit walls like a fleeing phantom.

Lavellan sighed, frowning at the unfamiliar wallpaper. It took him a long time to fall asleep.

*

Vivienne had certainly outdone herself.

That was all Lavellan could manage to think as he looked at himself in the mirror back at Skyhold on the night of the ball, scarcely able to recognize his own reflection. The outfit had been tailored and sent from Val Royeaux, perfectly trimmed and fitted just for him. It was not red (thankfully), but rather a glittering jewel green accented with gold that matched his eyes.

He’d requested that it look distinctly elvhen, with the curves and intricate embroidery characteristic of the culture, and the tailor had gone…a little overboard. Most of the patterns on his shoulders looked like feathers, with curling lines across his chest and down his hips that were reminiscent of antlers. 

The cloak he wore was a deeper, darker green made of some kind of brocade, giving the illusion of broader shoulders and a more imposing frame. The breeches were soft, dark brown velvet, and the boots were knee-high halla leather, covered in an intimidating array of buckles and clasps. He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to get them on.

But by far the most beautiful aspect was the mask – not an ugly Orlesian style, but something far more delicate and artistic. Like the rest of the outfit, it was mainly green and gold, but the fabric had been made to look just like leaves layered carefully atop one another, filigreed in gold and frosted with silver around the edges. Tiny emeralds were set along the brow line, catching the light charmingly. It made him look…he wasn’t sure. Mysterious? Alluring? Bright hazel eyes blinked questioningly from behind the mask of leaves and jewels.

A knock at his door startled him out of his reverie. He stumbled, cursed, and hurriedly pulled on his gloves (black and satin) before opening it – only to see Dorian standing there in unashamedly Tevinter attire and a black mask. He looked infuriatingly flawless, as per usual. “Oh,” Lavellan said, frazzled. “I didn’t expect…am I late? I’m late, aren’t I? I – mmph!”

Dorian kissed him deeply, chuckling against his lips. “I shall have to write a detailed thank you note to Vivienne later,” he murmured. “You look…I’m not sure there’s a fitting word for it in Common.”

Lavellan managed to recover, clutching his shoulders and gazing up at him through his lashes. “Is there one in Tevene?”

Dorian smiled. “Mm…yes. Auriolus.”

“What does that mean?”

“Golden,” Dorian said softly. “Golden and beautiful.” Lavellan’s heart stuttered at the genuine admiration in his voice.

“Applicable to both of us, I think,” Lavellan replied, nodding to the gold accents on Dorian’s robes, some of which twisted like snakes up his arms and around his throat. “You’ve certainly taken it upon yourself to represent House Pavus tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. I would have put a peacock on my head or something if I wished to do that. However, I’ve already heard at least five people say I look like a ‘bloody magister.’ Cole said I scared a little girl.” He sighed. “The struggle of looking so unbearably handsome…”

“Oh, of course,” Lavellan said, rolling his eyes. “And having such a small ego, too. You know, generally after someone compliments you, you’re just supposed to say ‘thank you’ and maybe compliment them back. Not further compliment yourself.”

Dorian grinned. “Trust me; I can certainly compliment you more.” He hands slid purposefully down Lavellan’s back. “I may expect a few things in return, though…”

Lavellan fought back a smile and pushed him towards the door. “Oh, no you don’t. We’re not late to the party yet, but if you have your way, we most definitely will be.”

“You’re no fun,” Dorian whined, pouting.

Lavellan snorted. “No, but I am very punctual.”

*

Lavellan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.

Josephine’s intensive planning had paid off, and the party was a lovely success. The usual lanterns were strung up and enchanted so that they cast multicolored light across the courtyard, which was cleaned and polished until it was fit for a dancefloor. Bards gathered in the corners, playing sweet melodies and jaunty tunes that encouraged the sway and whirl of dancers, all masked and dressed to impress. Various tables were covered with refreshments of every kind, including some bubbling rainbow drinks that Sera double dared Lavellan to try. He politely declined.

Vivienne had greeted him with the dignified version of a squeal, smiling coolly and clasping his hand. “I know you must be dying to thank me,” she said. “Green is most definitely your color, as I so shrewdly predicted.”

“Thank you, Vivienne,” Lavellan said graciously, noting that she had spared no expense with her own dress. “It was a very good choice.”

“You look too elfy,” Sera complained. “Like a walking pine tree.” Lavellan must have looked rather offended, because she giggled and added, “But you don’t look like too much of a noble prick! So there’s that.” She had on a mask that looked suspiciously like Briala’s, and seemed to be wearing even more plaid than usual, if that was even possible.

Varric also got the plaid memo, apparently. He wiggled his eyebrows at Lavellan when Dorian left to get a drink, and Lavellan gave him a half-hearted glare. “I didn’t say anything!” Varric exclaimed. “But I assume it worked out, if Bull’s in-depth descriptions of the nightly noises from your tent are anything to go by.”

Lavellan opened his mouth, then closed it. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Varric smirked smugly. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Sera tossed a biscuit at them. “Ew. Never using those tents again now, thanks very much.”

“What’s wrong with the tents?” Dorian asked, handing Lavellan a glass of wine. Varric gave him a meaningful look; he glared and took a long sip.

Sera snorted and skipped away. Varric patted Dorian’s arm. “Something about bees, Sparkler. It’s usually about bees with her.”

“Fair enough.” Dorian nodded at Cassandra, who was approaching them with a bigger smile than Lavellan had ever seen on her. “Well! Someone’s having a good time.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Cassandra declared, puffing her chest out a little and folding her arms. “It is a wonderful night. And Inquisitor, you look very handsome.” Dorian choked on his wine.

Lavellan coughed. “I, ah, thank you? Cassandra, are you…drunk?”

“No!” she protested, flushing. “I am fine. Just a little…” She waved a hand. “Anyway. I was…looking for someone. Who was I…oh, yes. Iron Bull. Have you seen him?”

Varric chortled. “Seeker, _why_ are you looking for Iron Bull?”

Cassandra turned redder. “I do not see how that’s any of your business, dwarf!”

“Of course not,” Dorian said calmingly, though his mouth was twitching. “I think I saw him near the tavern.” He gently redirected her. Lavellan smothered his laughter in his sleeve as Cassandra strode away, an empty flask hanging from her hand.

“About time,” Lavellan said. “Those two flirt incessantly.”

Dorian huffed. “That’s hardly credible. Iron Bull flirts with anything that moves.”

“He’s stopped flirting with you,” Lavellan pointed out. Dorian blinked, surprised. Lavellan blushed. Varric’s eyebrows continued to send nonverbal messages.

Then someone grabbed Lavellan’s arm hard, and he jumped, whirling and staring at Cole. “Fenedhis,” he hissed, “can you not?”

Cole stared back calmly. “I am sorry. So sorry.” He frowned and bowed his head. “So sorry…” Then he let go, arms limp at his sides, and wandered off, disappearing into the crowd.

“That’s a bit unsettling,” Dorian commented. “What do you think he meant?”

Lavellan shook his head, bewildered. The music swelled, and he recognized the song as an old Dalish ballad, though the words were changed slightly and the sound was fuller and louder than he’d ever heard. Without thinking, he tugged Dorian towards the music. “Dance with me,” he said, and Dorian laughed, disbelieving. “Come on!”

“I’m afraid the only dances I know would shock the general public,” Dorian tried, but Lavellan was having none of it. The man had attended dozens of Tevinter soirees – surely he could dance. Lavellan was the less experienced one there, clumsily taking Dorian’s hand and pulling him close with enthusiasm. Dorian relented, correcting his hands and wrapping an arm around Lavellan’s waist, hand resting lightly on the small of his back. “Like this,” he murmured, stepping to the right smoothly, and Lavellan followed his lead, the fiddler’s chords forming their rhythm.

Lavellan was certain people were staring – _the evil magister and the pure Inquisitor_ , Dorian whispered into his ear – but elation rushed through him and he saw a similar joy in Dorian’s eyes, subdued but real, and Lavellan could not help but wonder if he was the cause of it. Everyone around them was laughing, dancing, singing, _living_. Yes, that was it – he felt alive, so alive, and he had the sudden urge to shout, to crow as loudly as he could from the highest tower so that everyone could hear and feel as he did now…

The music slowed and stopped and the crowd burst into raucous applause, stomping their feet and throwing flowers and sweets at the bards. Dorian clapped with them, smiling at Lavellan and giving a little bow. “Thank you for the dance, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan smiled back. “It was my pleasure, Lord Pavus.”

A strident voice split the air. “Inquisitor?” He looked up, confused. Leliana was weaving through the throng of people, waving him over. “Inquisitor, a word?”

Dorian furrowed his brow. “She looks serious. Well, go on – I’ll save you a dance for later, hm?”

“Thank you,” Lavellan said gratefully before joining Leliana on the outskirts. She did look serious – somber, even. “Is everything alright?” he asked. “What did you want to tell me?”

Leliana swallowed. “I…I think it is news best suited for the war room, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan frowned. “Leliana, please. This is a party, can’t we just forget about business for one –”

“Lavellan, you should come with me,” she told him. “Now. You will want to hear it now.”

“I…if you think that’s best,” he conceded, eying her with apprehension.

She nodded and he followed her out of the lively courtyard, up the stairs, through the throne room and Josephine’s office, until they reached the familiar table and the other two advisors. Both shared similar grim expressions, and Josephine’s eyes were puffy and red. Confused and concerned, Lavellan turned to Leliana. “What’s going on? Has something happened?”

“I’m so sorry, Inquisitor,” Josephine sniffled, sounding near hysterics. “S-so sorry. I tried my best, but…but…”

“The Duke of Wycome showed his true colors,” Leliana explained. “The bandits your Keeper described were actually mercenaries hired by him to attack the clan.”

“What?” Lavellan asked, brow furrowed. “What do you…what are you saying?”

“Your clan is gone,” Cullen said. “They were slaughtered by the mercenaries. We can send soldiers to arrest the Duke –”

Lavellan gripped the edge of the war table so hard his knuckles turned ivory. “No,” he said simply.

Leliana cut in. “My scouts could infiltrate the city and learn his motives for –”

“No,” Lavellan snapped, louder. He found it hard to breathe, suddenly. “They’re…they’re dead? All of them?”

Josephine nodded, reaching out to him with a trembling hand. “A…a few may have escaped, but…the mercenaries were…thorough.”

Lavellan let out a shuddering breath and stepped back. “This is my fault,” he whispered.

“Inquisitor –”

“This is my fault!” he cried, anguished, the mark on his hand crackling to life, green energy snapping in the air around him, singing the green fabric and sending sharp sparks of pain up his arm.

“Inquisitor!”

“No,” he said again, hollow and defeated, and then he turned and fled.

*

Tears blurred his vision as he dashed across the ramparts, flickering in and out of stealth as the party continued in full swing below him. His heart, once attuned to the music, found a faster, more frantic beat, his lungs burning with barely-restrained sobs that made his chest ache. The mark still glowed, feeding off of his grief, encouraging his rage, but when he reached the door of the old watch tower he just felt empty.

He wrenched the door open and stumbled inside, letting the sobs break free, tripping over his fancy boots, throwing the priceless mask aside. It clattered against the ancient flagstone and the looming shadows shifted at the sound, a golden eye opening and a growl rumbling around him.

“Nira,” he gasped, moving towards her, indifferent to the danger of invading the lair of the dragon that was now easily eight feet tall. The growl tapered off, replaced by the rustle of wings and the scrape of claws on stone. The mark sputtered and flared to life again, startling Nira back and lighting the dark space for a few moments.

Illuminated by the sickly green luminescence, Nira towered above him, teeth and eyes glinting fiercely. Fear caught in Lavellan’s throat along with the tears, and he made a choked, panicked sound when her head darted down at the same time that the mark went out, plunging him once more in darkness. He wondered if he would at any moment feel the heat of dragon flame or the tear of teeth but instead he was surrounded by cool, sharp scales that ripped at the expensive fabric of his tunic and cloak.

Hesitant, he reached out, his gloved palm pressing flat against the dragon’s shoulder. She wrapped her neck around him tighter, bringing him closer to her side and nuzzling at him with her regal head, letting out a warm breath when he shivered and clung to her, his body wracked with sobs. Her scales cut his cheek when he leaned against her but he did not care, even when she made a distressed sound at the scent of his blood and unfurled her wings, draping one over him like a blanket.

“They’re all dead because of me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “My parents…my family…the Keeper, they’re all…” Lavellan hugged his knees to his chest. Nira exhaled, ruffling his hair. “They must have died hating me,” he whispered. “They had every right. They asked me to send help, and…and…I sent them to their deaths.”

Nira’s chest rumbled as if in disagreement, and he hoped she was right. “I don’t want to be Inquisitor,” he admitted to her in the heavy silence. “I…I just want to go home. But I don’t know where that is anymore, and when this is all over, I don’t know where to go.” He wiped his eyes miserably. “But maybe…maybe I won’t have to worry about that. Maybe when all of this ends, I’ll end too.”

He listened to the sound of her breathing, the thunderous pound of her heart, the rattle of her scales as she shifted and comforted him in the only way she knew. He thought of the party, of all his friends celebrating, of the advisors he’d abandoned, and felt sick. He wasn’t ready to face any of them.

So instead he nestled against his dragon and closed his eyes, praying that sleep would come for him quickly.

*

It did, but it was riddled with dreams that seemed more like shallow realities, as if halfway between this world and the Fade, pushing against the Veil with increasing insistence. He could feel the cold stone under him and the rise and fall of Nira’s body, but there was a distinctly otherworldly and new presence with them.

Or perhaps not so new.

“It seems I should have warned you of other deaths, too,” the rasping voice murmured mockingly, its owner hidden in the gloom. “Such a simple decision, yet you got it so wrong…”

“I thought it was the right thing,” Lavellan whispered.

“Ah, of course you did. Inquisitor Lavellan, always doing the right thing…the selfless thing…” It chuckled, a sound like nails on tile. “It’s a wonder you made it this far.”

Lavellan scoffed. “Would you rather I was a tyrant?”

“To fear or to love?” the voice mused. “To be feared is far more dangerous…but to be loved…there must be trust. And trust can be betrayed…yes, betrayed…” The last word was spoken as a bitter hiss.

“Were you betrayed?” Lavellan asked, curious despite himself.

“Yes…betrayed…”

“By who?”

The voice’s chuckles grew into full-blown laughter. “You know,” it said, “yes, you know.”

Then claws were at Lavellan’s throat, and the voice’s face was inches away from his and it was…it was _nothingness_ , a void space of black eyes and a gaping, snarling maw that reeked of blood and death. He screamed, tumbling backwards, but the voice’s grip tightened and then he was falling, falling, shadows and blood slipping through his fingers –

“Lavellan!”

He jolted into consciousness, stirring blearily, instantly aware of the frigid air and the stiffness of his limbs. Light – fire in a palm –flooded the space and Nira was growling, the reason for it becoming clear when his vision sharpened and he saw Dorian standing in the open doorway, his expression mildly terrified.

Lavellan put a calming hand on Nira’s side and stood shakily, bracing himself on her shoulder and stumbling to Dorian, his joints creaking in protest. The mage caught him before he fell, Dorian’s arms strong and secure around him. “Oh, Echo,” he whispered, touching the scrapes on his face and taking in his disheveled appearance. “Thank the Maker, we’ve been searching for hours, we thought you might have…” He closed his eyes and embraced him tightly. “I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.”

Lavellan stared dimly at the sky behind him – it was still dark, only a sliver of light on the distant horizon.

“I want to go home,” he said without meaning to, his voice pitifully small and frail. The tears bubbled up again, by their own volition. “Please.”

Dorian held him tighter. “Let’s get you to bed,” was all he said.

*

Lavellan let himself be practically dragged to his quarters, his feet not working properly, shivering uncontrollably in between sneezes. Dorian chastised him the whole way. “What were you thinking, running off like that, leaving everyone to come to their own conclusions…and now look, you’ve gotten yourself sick, what did you think would happen if you fell asleep in an abandoned freezing watchtower during Firstfall…honestly, how you’ve managed to make it this far is really a mystery to me.”

Lavellan shivered especially violently at those words, the memory of his dream coming back to him and only serving to upset him more. He sniffled and was glad when they reached his quarters soon after. He sat on the edge of the bed, teeth chattering as Dorian made the fire, turning back to him with a frown. “You’ve absolutely ruined those beautiful clothes,” he informed him, tugging judgmentally on the ragged gloves. They fluttered limply to the floor. “Do not let Vivienne see them, or she might cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan said dully.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dorian snapped, and started unfastening the buckles of his boots. “Come on; let’s get you out of this mess.”

Lavellan blinked but tried to get the tunic up and off along with the cloak, his fingers cold and clumsy. Eventually, he succeeded, and by the time he had, Dorian had gotten him down to his smalls. Lavellan crossed his arms over his chest and shivered again. Dorian sighed, crossing the room to rifle through the wardrobe, tossing a new pair of smalls over his shoulder where they landed at Lavellan’s feet. “Change, I’ll find you something warm to wear.”

Lavellan blinked again, baffled, and stood, undressing fully and then just pausing, standing there with his eyes fixed on the floor. Dorian turned back around, his arms full of pajamas which he set on the bed, and sighed again, louder this time. “Really? Your knees are knocking, work with me here, I’m not going to dress you like a maid –”

Lavellan turned to him, shuffling forward, and then kissed him, his lips feeling oddly numb, his mind fuzzy and detached. He pressed his body against Dorian’s, trembling. Dorian faltered, stunned, and then pushed him back, holding him at arms’ length with a worried expression. Lavellan licked his lips and looked down. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “You can, if you want.”

Dorian’s gaze darkened, but not from arousal. “I’m not here for that,” he practically spat.

Lavellan looked at him, utterly lost. “Then…then why are you here?”

Dorian stared at him for roughly five seconds, then snapped. “Fasta vass!” he exclaimed, his grip on Lavellan’s arms near-bruising. “You must have a remarkably low opinion of me to even think that I’d take advantage of you in such a state. I am here because I care about you, Lavellan! And people who care about you don’t use you when you’re at your most vulnerable, alright?”

Lavellan swallowed back tears, still clinging to him stubbornly. “But…but what if I want you to use me?”

Dorian shook his head firmly, though his voice was softer. “You don’t want that,” he murmured. “Trust me; I’ve tried it many times when I was in so much pain that I thought the only solution was a different kind of hurt. But it just makes it so much worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan repeated.

Dorian embraced him again, a hand curled into his hair. “Stop apologizing,” he replied. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. You had no way of knowing the Duke would turn traitor.”

“But –”

“No way,” Dorian said. “You’re hurting enough already. Best not to bring the blame down upon yourself too.”

Lavellan sniffled and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’ll…I’ll try not to.”

“Good,” Dorian approved, stepping back and picking up the clothes again. “Now, you should get covered up before your cold gets any worse.”

*

Lavellan ended up in his bed, bundled in endless layers of blankets with Dorian snuggled up against his back, an arm draped around his waist. Dorian’s hand rested over his chest, sending a steady trickle of heat magic through him to ease his shivering and sneezing. The mage had also healed the little cuts and scrapes from Nira’s scales, muttering about how people didn’t snuggle with dragons for a reason. Already, he felt unbelievably better, and the raw grief from before was more like a subdued ache now, a manageable sadness.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Dorian grumbled, making him twitch in surprise. “Go to sleep.”

Lavellan closed his eyes dutifully, shifting back into Dorian’s warmth and inhaling the soft, clean scent of the pillows. “Thank you,” he whispered, and at first he wasn’t sure Dorian had heard, but then the mage hummed and kissed the back of his neck.

“Sleep.”

And so Lavellan did.

And when he awoke briefly hours later, he thought he must be dreaming because Dorian was still there, holding him tight.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it had to happen eventually. Here's a really long chapter! And next chapter, we finally start up with the action (not dorian/lavellan action, I think you've all gotten PLENTY of that) and the plot-y stuff again. Oh, and tragic fluff. I mean, what?
> 
> Stay tuned, and enjoy.  
> (thank you to everyone commenting, it means a lot!)

The rest of the Satinalia festival continued throughout Skyhold, and Lavellan was told it was a wonderful three days of fun. Multiple times, Sera or Varric or even Cassandra had come up to his quarters to try and coax him out to join the party, but he just…didn’t feel very much like doing anything except lying in bed and pacing the length of his room. 

He was listless yet restless, his mind filled with scattered thoughts and swirling memories, filing them all away so he would not forget the ones he’d lost. Sometimes, he prayed, which Solas would no doubt have been ecstatic about – but he never gave a name to the god he prayed to. Still, it comforted him to pretend that perhaps someone was listening to him, and that the souls of his family had gone somewhere good, hard as it was to believe. He’d been to the Fade, and it didn’t quite agree with him.

But still, he hoped. He could do nothing else but hope.

He probably wouldn’t have eaten much if not for Dorian, who visited him at least three times a day; threatening to spoon-feed him if he left the soup untouched again. And eventually it worked, and the sickly gauntness left Lavellan’s face, though the dark circles under his eyes remained.

“Sleep,” Dorian would insist, but Lavellan would shake his head resolutely, sipping his fifth cup of tea. He was afraid to sleep, afraid that if he closed his eyes for too long, a face made of nothingness would appear before him again. But he couldn’t tell Dorian that. He still wasn’t quite certain if that thing was real, or just a figment of his increasingly unstable imagination. 

Eventually, though, his exhaustion won out (and Dorian may or may not have put a sleeping draught in his tea) on the third night, and he fell into a deep sleep, slumped over his desk. He dreamed, but it was not the dream he’d been fearing. It was something much different, and far stranger.

He was back at home, in the camp of his clan, laughing as he watched Riva’s two year old twins scamper about, chasing a nug through the tall grass and tripping over their own feet. The halla grazed contentedly all around him, completely at ease among their People. A familiar voice called to him, and when he looked up he saw his mother and father standing beside their aravel, his mother with white-blonde hair like his own and a staff at her back, his father with bright hazel eyes and open arms. They were both smiling.

And then, impossible though it was, his sister came running from their tent, long, pale hair streaming out behind her. She wrapped him up in a bruising hug, and she smelled like the forest after the rain, sweet and wild. It was then that the illusion shattered – this was just a dream; he was surrounded by ghosts. He pulled away hastily, staring at his sister and wanting so badly to believe it was real.

“Enya,” he whispered. “I…I missed you.”

She beamed at him, and she looked as if she’d never died, as if she’d aged just as he had. She looked as beautiful as he’d imagined. “Don’t worry,” she told him, her voice odd and faint, as if heard through a pane of glass. “We’ll be together again soon.” She reached out and touched the scar on his lip, a knowing look in her eyes, and he flinched back. Her smile wavered.

“None of you should be here,” he said, pained. “You’re all here because I made mistakes. You,” he pointed at Enya, shaking his head, “you died to save me. And all the rest of you died because I couldn’t be bothered to send my own soldiers to help –”

“Oh, Echo,” Enya murmured, stepping closer. “I died for you because I loved you.” She took his hand, the one with the mark, and traced over it lightly. “And mother and father died still loving you, lethallin. All of this happened for a reason.”

Lavellan swallowed. “How can you say that? There was no reason for them to die –”

Enya’s hair darkened, her figure grew taller, and her face faded away into a darkness hidden under a large hood. Lavellan cursed and tried to tear his hands away from the shadowy creature, but it held on tight, nails scraping over the mark and making him hiss in pain. “There is always a reason for death,” it said softly. “It was their time. But see, they are happy now.”

“This isn’t real,” Lavellan spat. “They’re not really here.”

“Perhaps,” the creature said. “Perhaps not. But you will see soon enough, _da’len_. Oh, yes – your time is coming.”

Lavellan stopped struggling. He gritted his teeth. “Who are you?”

The creature bowed its head. This time, strangely, he sensed no malice from it. Just sadness, overwhelming and reflecting his own. “I am an echo,” it said. 

Lavellan’s brow creased. “A spirit, then?” 

“No.” The creature released his hands, turning away until its hunched back was facing him. “Not yet. But the others…” It shivered. “I will not let myself be reduced to that. No. But time is running out and still I am trapped, bound…forgotten.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “Are you a demon?”

Its shoulders shook with silent laughter, or perhaps sobs. “Wake up, Inquisitor,” it said. “Wake up. Someone is waiting for you on the other side.”

Lavellan opened his eyes blearily. Dorian was leaning over him.

“Oh, good,” he said with a sigh of relief. “I was worried I may have put a tad too much blood lotus in your tea. It would’ve been rather awkward if I’d accidentally murdered the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan flinched, remembering his dream, and Dorian frowned. “I’m not actually going to murder you,” he promised. “In fact, if you’d had your way, you would’ve died without me these past few days. Sleep deprivation never improved anything, trust me.”

Lavellan managed a short laugh, sitting up against the pillows. “Oh, what would I do without you, my faithful lackey?” He patted Dorian’s arm and chuckled when the mage mock-glared at him. 

“Lackey?!”

“Would you prefer ‘servant’? Or maybe ‘slave’?” Lavellan folded his arms, eyebrow raised.

Dorian huffed, offended. “I was thinking _friend_ , actually. Speaking of which…in a few hours, your other friends are throwing a little celebration for you. Congratulations. Leliana tells me today is your birthday.”

Lavellan rubbed his eyes. “Of course she did.” He’d nearly forgotten about the promise he’d made to her, and was rather dreading the party they must have put together for him. 

“Well, get up, then!” Dorian squawked, tugging him up. Lavellan stumbled and almost kicked the nightstand over. “One should not spend their birthday moping around in bed. Not alone, anyway.” He winked and Lavellan groaned. 

“I don’t know if I can –”

“Nonsense! You can and you will. A little levity will do you good, if you ask me.” Dorian steered him towards the wardrobe. “Please don’t tell me I have to dress you again.”

Lavellan swatted at him. “I think I’m capable. Go hang up party streamers or whatever it is you were doing before drugging me.”

Dorian shrugged. “It was well-intentioned drugging.”

Lavellan narrowed his eyes and pulled open one of the drawers so forcefully it cracked. Dorian’s eyes widened.

“Apologies. You’re not a morning person, how could I forget?” Lavellan grunted noncommittally. “I’ll see you at seven in the tavern, then. Wear something pretty.” He spun on his heel and promptly waltzed out.

Lavellan glowered down at the messily folded tunics. “I’m always pretty,” he grumbled. 

*

Despite moping around in his bed _almost_ all day, Lavellan was glad he’d agreed to go to the tavern, where, as Leliana had promised, only the inner circle had attended the small party. There was something very warm and welcoming about it all, and when Lavellan pushed open the door and ducked inside he was immediately greeted by a chorus of the birthday song (a human tradition he still found rather amusing). 

He found a seat between Cassandra and Sera, across from Dorian and Josephine. When he sat down, Josephine gave him a small, hopeful smile that he simply couldn’t not return. Her eyes still looked a little red, and he felt a rush of guilt for running off after the advisors had broken the news to him. They must have been worried sick.  
But those thoughts quickly disappeared as the party progressed, starting with a truly impressive cake that Cassandra had to physically restrain Sera from demolishing. Lavellan stared at it. “This is for me?” he asked, disbelieving. “You…you didn’t have to, I –”

“Oh, c’mon, boss,” Bull said, daintily placing a candle atop the three-tiered masterpiece. Dorian lit it with a flick of his fingers. “Live a little. It’s cake! Enjoy it. Who doesn’t like cake?”

Vivienne sniffed and raised her hand. Blackwall offered to find her a dessert more suitable for a proper lady. She gave him a frigid glare and took her cake haughtily, picking at it with the tiniest fork Lavellan had ever seen. 

Cole, on the other hand, carried his cake carefully to the windowsill. Varric coughed. “What’s that for, kid?”

“The birds like cake,” Cole said. “And the mice. And the rats.”

“Sorry I asked,” Varric said. “Hey, Solas, want a slice?”

Solas eyed the offered cake with no small amount of disgust. “No thank you. Wine will be sufficient,” he said. He nodded to Cullen, who was speaking animatedly to Krem about…sword strategies or something. “However, I believe our Commander has a sweet tooth.”

“Krem does too,” Bull added. “Because he’s a…Krem brulée!” 

Sera snorted. Krem sighed, and Cullen gave him a sympathetic shrug. “Yeah, true enough. Gimme some of that cake, chief.”

Leliana took a piece when nobody was looking, somehow. Dagna and Scout Harding came late, and ended up splitting the last piece together. 

Lavellan savored his cake, hardly believing that all of this was happening. Dorian caught his eyes and smiled at him, and Lavellan flushed and tried not to notice the way the candlelight flickered in his eyes or the dramatic curve of his jaw or the spot of cream that had caught on his lip. 

Fenedhis, that was entirely intentional. Dorian smirked and licked it off. Lavellan decided to talk to Sera, only to find that she was laughing hysterically at something Dagna had said. He turned to Cassandra instead, and paused at her solemn expression. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

Cassandra frowned. “I should be asking you that, Inquisitor.”

“Oh.” Lavellan shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m fine now.”

“I’m glad,” she said sincerely. “When you went to Nira’s tower, I thought…I feared you were…” She sighed. “I know you would never do such a thing. But I was worried, Inquisitor. We all were.”

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan said, instinctively.

“No,” she said. “ _I’m_ sorry. I know how it feels to lose one’s family.” She lowered her voice. “If you ever…ever need anything, I would be happy to help however I can.”

Lavellan smiled at her with a lump in his throat. “Thank you, Cassandra. But right now…this is enough. More than enough.”

She smiled back. “I’m glad.” 

They finished their cake in companionable silence.

Leliana clapped her hands when almost everyone was done. “I believe it is time for presents now, yes?”

Lavellan gaped at her. “Oh, no. You didn’t seriously –”

“Oh, yes, Freckles,” Varric said, making a big show of getting up and crossing the room to a table Lavellan had somehow missed, which was covered in various packages. The others followed suit. He tossed a squarish one to Lavellan. “It’s a work in progress, but I thought you might as well be the first to read it.”

Lavellan unwrapped it carefully, blinking at the heavy pile of parchment before grinning in delight. “ _This Shit is Weird: The Inquisitor Lavellan Story_? Varric. You did _not_.”

“I did.” Varric inclined his head. “It’s still missing the climatic final battle, but I’m sure we’ll get to that eventually.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan gushed, resolving to let Cassandra read it first. 

Varric’s gift was followed by the biggest bag of cookies Lavellan had ever seen from Sera, a surprisingly clean bottle of Seheron wine from Iron Bull, ridiculously expensive leather gloves from Vivienne, and a carved wooden dragon from Blackwall. It was all very nice and very unexpected and Lavellan was sure his face was beet red by the end of it…except that wasn’t the end of it, and his blush only worsened with Dorian’s gift. It looked innocent enough, he supposed – a small, corked glass vial that smelled rich and fragrant. 

“It’s scented oil for your hair,” Dorian said nonchalantly, pushing it towards him. “Also makes very nice perfume. It’s straight from Minrathous, you’re welcome.”

But Lavellan knew exactly what it was, and perfume was not it.

Lavellan snatched it quickly with a pained smile. “How very thoughtful of you,” he gritted out. Dorian looked at him smugly and fluttered his eyelashes. _Ridiculous,_ Lavellan thought, but his mouth twitched. 

“Perfume?” Josephine asked, intrigued. “Oh, Dorian, do tell me where to find it later! I’m always searching for exotic scents.”

He chuckled. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Montilyet.” 

Lavellan really hoped he did not uphold that promise, and also hoped Bull’s expression was not as knowing as it seemed.

Solas and Cole’s gift, however, was much stranger. When Solas presented the two bluish crystals hanging on fine silver chains, Lavellan had no idea what they were. “Message crystals, Inquisitor,” Solas explained coolly. “They allow the wearers to communicate over long distances with each other.”

Lavellan took them, still bewildered. “They’re beautiful,” he said, “but why…?”

Cole hummed. “Dark. Alone. No…not alone.” Cole furrowed his brow, frustrated. He paused. “You need them,” he insisted. 

“Alright,” Lavellan said, wondering who to give the other crystal to. Actually, he wasn’t really. He glanced at Dorian, then tucked the crystals away safely. “Thank you, Solas and Cole.” He nodded at the table. “Thank you to all of you, you really didn’t need to –”

“There’s one more!” Dagna exclaimed, carrying a large, nearly-flat box over to where he sat, plopping it down between him and Cassandra. “It was the Seeker’s idea, and I made it.” Lavellan reached for the latch on the box, gasping when it opened, revealing the most beautiful bow he’d ever seen.

“It’s got a master corruption rune,” Dagna informed him happily. “And a special grip with some sigils, it’s made almost entirely of dragon materials, and I tried to base the design off of the sketches Cassandra gave me. It’s stronger than any of the others you had made, guaranteed!”

“Thank you,” Lavellan whispered, running his hand worshipfully over the immaculate ebony curve of the weapon, which was tipped with thorny protrusions like antlers, overlaid by swirling designs – ancient elvhen mixed with artful scribbles. The bow glowed with a soft, warm scarlet light that grew brighter wherever he touched it. He looked up at Cassandra. “It’s incredible,” he whispered. “Truly – I could not have asked for a better gift.”

She flushed. “And I could not have asked for a better friend.”

Bull aw’ed loudly. Sera flicked her spoon at him.

The rest of the party dissolved into small talk and laughter, during which Lavellan broke out the Seheron wine and got tispy enough that any residual sadness quickly faded away, replaced by fuzzy warmth. As people started to trickle out of the tavern, Lavellan’s advisors approached him. There was no grimness in their faces now, only earnest sympathy.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine murmured. “I don’t wish to spoil the evening by bringing it up, however…we thought you should know that we discovered the motives behind the Duke’s betrayal.”

Lavellan took a deep breath. “His…motives?”

Cullen grimaced. “A plague has spread through the city, but…it only affects humans. The nobles have nicknamed it the Knife-Eared Plague.” He sighed. “Evidently the Duke thought to use Clan Lavellan as a scapegoat.”

“I see,” Lavellan said. He folded his arms and looked at Leliana. “Can you take care of the Duke?”

Leliana blinked, surprised. “I…” She nodded. “I can, Inquisitor. In fact…I know a certain ex-Crow whom I’m sure would rise to the occasion gladly.”

Josephine tapped her chin thoughtfully. “It seems Wycome is in need of a regime change. I believe I know some good candidates.”

“And we should send troops to protect the elves remaining in the city,” Lavellan added. “I will not allow more of our lives to be needlessly lost.”

“Understood,” Cullen said. “I’ll send one of our finest regiments.”

Lavellan exhaled, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you all.”

“Of course,” Josephine replied. “Oh, and there is another thing – we have made plans to…to construct a memorial for your people there, as we did for those lost at Haven. Only if you would like, of course! But we just thought, maybe…”

“Yes,” Lavellan said softly. “Please do.”

Josephine leaned forward and gave him a quick and impulsive hug. “Happy birthday, Inquisitor,” she said as she pulled away. Cullen and Leliana repeated it in kind, and left him in the tavern with Krem, Scout Harding, and Dorian.

Krem immediately started coughing and edging towards the door. “I think I’d best be going now, Inquisitor,” he mumbled. “Enjoy your…night.” His eyes darted very non-surreptitiously to Dorian, and he all but ran out.

Yeah, Bull definitely knew, and by default so did Krem. Great.

Scout Harding, however, continued to obliviously sip her drink and ask Dorian questions. “So wait, wait, does it really never snow in Tevinter?! How is that even possible?”

Dorian answered patiently. “The sea air is quite warm. The air currents go inland all year round, so…no snow. Never in Qarinus, anyway.” He raised an eyebrow at Lavellan as he approached. 

“Inquisitor!” Harding exclaimed. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get you anything, I had no idea what to –”

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured her. “Your extraordinary scouting skills are all I ever wanted and more.”

“Aw, shucks,” she said, turning pink. “Say, have you looked over those new maps I sent you of that region way out west? The Hissing Wastes?” 

Lavellan cringed, because that place sounded like the opposite of fun and he hadn’t even glanced at them yet. “Uh…I’ll…get to it. Soon, I promise.”

“My birthday’s next month,” she said, waggling a finger at him, “and a well-read map would be the best present you could give me.”

“Noted,” he promised.

There was a very long, very awkward pause during which Harding finally seemed to realize she was possibly interrupting something. “I should get to bed,” she said. “We set out for the Arbor Wilds in a week, and I need to get all the scouting routes sorted out.” She saluted. “Wish me luck!”

“Good luck!” Lavellan called out as she went out the door. It closed with a dull thud. 

Dorian chuckled lowly. “Well, that was interesting.”

“I cannot believe you,” Lavellan hissed, stalking towards him and taking the bottle of oil out of his pocket, shaking it at him crossly. “In front of everyone, you…you…”

“I wasn’t lying, technically,” Dorian replied, grinning. “You _could_ use it for your hair, or as perfume. However, it has more practical uses, as you apparently already know.”

Lavellan glared at him. “Oh, it better,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he advanced on Dorian. “In fact,” he murmured, “I think you ought to prove it to me.”

Dorian licked his lips. “Right now?”

“Mhm.”

“Right here?”

Lavellan stopped. “What?! No! Dorian, we’re in the tavern! The _public_ tavern.”

“But there’s no one here now,” he tried.

Lavellan couldn’t believe they were actually having this conversation. “I’m fairly certain at least some of the Chargers sleep here, and Cole could be upstairs right now!”

“Oh.” Dorian raised his eyes up and winced. “Point taken. Where, then, dear Inquisitor?”

Lavellan waved a hand. “It’s your gift to me,” he said. “So you choose.”

Dorian stood, considering. “Hmm…oh, I know! The throne.”

Lavellan stared at him for several seconds of horror and disbelief before Dorian burst out laughing. Lavellan rolled his eyes. “I am not letting you fuck me on my throne, Dorian,” Lavellan said firmly. “If anything, it would have to be the other way around.”

Dorian’s eyes darkened. “Rain check on that, then.”

Lavellan snorted. “Still waiting for a real suggestion, preferably not a disturbingly exhibitionist one.”

“So picky,” Dorian complained, but then his eyes lit up. “Ah, I’ve got it.”

“Where?”

“Do you trust me?”

“I feel like I’m going to regret saying yes.”

Dorian took his hand. “Doubtful.”

*

“Is this the _dungeon_?”

“Well…technically…yes. Or it was, at some point. Presumably.” Dorian nodded to the disused, rusty cells on either side.

“The floor is missing.” Lavellan pointed out. In fact, most of the floor was gone, giving way to a rushing waterfall which he could hear more than see, and a giant archway that looked out onto the Frostbacks and the night sky. It was cold, dark, and damp, and Lavellan was really questioning Dorian’s logic. “This is the worst wooing I have ever been subjected to,” he announced. His voice resonated hollowly throughout the space.

“Patience,” Dorian assured him, taking off his cloak and laying it on the floor with a flourish that sent sparks of heat into the air and into the soft fabric. “I am the best wooer.”

Lavellan scoffed. “Hm, I don’t know…I once laid with a man in Ostwick who prepared an entire dinner for me before, ah…preparing _me_ , and he did it very well, mind you –”

“You just had cake! Which was mostly my idea, I’ll have you know!” Dorian snapped peevishly.

“I’m fairly certain it was Sera’s,” Lavellan corrected.

Dorian’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, well, fine, maybe it was, but I gave…suggestions on decoration –”

“I’m only joking,” Lavellan murmured, stepping closer. “The dinner was rather shit, and he wasn’t nearly as handsome as you.”

“Obviously,” Dorian replied, but he sounded pleased.

“He wasn’t a mage, either,” Lavellan continued. “To be quite honest, I believe you’re the first mage I’ve slept with.”

Dorian’s eyes glinted. “Oh, you poor, sheltered soul.”

“Sheltered is not the word I would use.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dorian said, starting to unbutton Lavellan’s tunic already. It fell at their feet, quickly joined by his breeches and smalls, until Lavellan was shivering and bare in front of him, half hard already. Dorian guided him down to the floor, stripping himself as he went and picking up the bottle from the pile of clothes. “This isn’t ordinary oil,” he told Lavellan conspiratorially, lips brushing his ear.

“Right, right, it’s straight from Minrathous and of the highest quality, I know –”

“No,” Dorian said. “I don’t think you do.”

Lavellan leaned back against the wall, skin breaking out in goosebumps from the cold stone. “Then what, exactly, makes it so special?” he muttered, inhaling sharply at the brush of Dorian’s fingers against his inner thigh. The bottle was uncapped, and he felt the oil slick along his skin…but then it turned startlingly warm and tingling, the sensation strong enough that he gasped and looked at Dorian, half accusatory and half enthralled. “Did you do that?” he asked. But he already knew the answer – the magic was in the oil itself. 

“No,” Dorian replied, making Lavellan squirm as he pressed closer, the oil making heat spread faster than usual, his nerves overloaded already. “It’s just a…trick. One of many, I assure you…for all their faults, Tevinter is quite good at coming up with things like this.”

Lavellan snickered, though it became choked when Dorian’s finger pressed inside him slowly. “Figures,” he said. “Tevinter: started the Blight, ruined the elves, and made ridiculous magical sex toys.”

“You don’t seem to find it ridiculous,” Dorian murmured, adding another finger and crooking them. Lavellan scrabbled at the stones and at Dorian’s shoulders, legs falling open. “In fact, I’d say you rather like it.” 

Then his mouth was on Lavellan’s neck, fingers still working him open, the oil making Lavellan shudder and clutch desperately at Dorian while nodding and pleading wordlessly. He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for, just that he needed _more_ , and when heat spiked through Dorian’s fingertips and up his spine he nearly cried out, panting against Dorian’s neck. His mind was caught in an endless feedback loop of sweet, painless, twisting pleasure, but even still he hadn’t forgotten Dorian’s own arousal. How could he, when he could feel it warm and wet against his hip, dragging across his skin every time Dorian shifted to a find a new, more torturous angle?

“You…you can,” he stuttered out, squeezing his eyes shut in chagrin at how broken his voice sounded. “I’m ready; it’s…it’s fine, I –”

But Dorian just laughed against his throat. “Tonight is about you,” he told him, lifting up the tangled mess of limbs and curses that was Lavellan into his lap. “Just you.” His voice dropped to a whisper, stroking Lavellan’s back and holding him close, closer, closest. “Only you.”

Lavellan moaned and kissed him hard, head bowing and hair falling in his face in silken, snowy strings against the ink spill of Dorian’s own. The air might have been damp and unwelcoming once, but now, wrapped up in Dorian and his magic; there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

*

Six days later, Lavellan finally got around to looking at Scout Harding’s map – after pouring over the roughly five thousand other maps that had been sent to him regarding the Arbor Wilds. Leliana’s scouts had already been sent ahead to detain Corypheus’s troops, and the rest of the Inquisition would follow tomorrow morning. Cullen had briefed him on the enemies to expect, while Morrigan had gone on and on about the temple and what might lie inside. So he wasn’t going into this blindly.

But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong, and someone was going to get hurt. Perhaps it would be him, but…he couldn’t help but wonder if it might be someone else. As proven in Din’an Hanin, ancient magic still remained in such places, magic that might be hostile to someone who, for example, the ancient elves would have reason to dislike. 

Namely, Dorian, the human mage from the country full of human mages who had destroyed everything the ancient elves held dear. If anything from that age still lingered in the temple, Dorian would most certainly be in danger. So Lavellan had decided not to take him. He gave the final list of party members chosen to journey into the temple with him to Leliana, who looked over it with some surprise. 

“Nira, Cassandra, Iron Bull and Solas?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing, Inquisitor. I just…you often bring Dorian on major missions. Are the two of you…?”

Lavellan blanched. “Are the two of us _what_?”

“…Fighting?” she finished. “I haven’t seen you in the mage tower at all lately, so I thought, perhaps…”

“Oh,” Lavellan said, deeply relieved. “No, no, we’re still on good terms, as far as I know. And I haven’t left my quarters much lately, so.” He shrugged apologetically. “I haven’t seen much of anyone.”

“Of course,” Leliana said. “And I know Dorian has been very caught up in researching everything he can find about the Arbor Wilds and the temples that lie within.” She paused, giving Lavellan time to feel even guiltier than he already did. “But Solas may be more useful, who knows?”

“I hope so,” he replied, making a mental note to avoid going back through the library.

*

But Dorian found out soon enough, and Lavellan was somehow not surprised when his evening reading was interrupted by a series of very angry knocks on his door, followed by Dorian forgoing politeness and simply bursting in. 

Lavellan peered at him from over the edge of the book. Dorian glared at him. His hair was a mess, as if he’d just been raking his fingers through it out of sheer exasperation. Actually, that was probably exactly what had happened.

“You are _not_ bringing Solas to the temple instead of me,” Dorian exclaimed, throwing his hands up and striding furiously towards Lavellan’s desk. “You can’t stand him! At least bring me instead of the Iron Bull!”

“I’m sorry, Dorian,” Lavellan said wearily, setting down his book and crossing his arms. “But I already gave Leliana my final choice.”

“You’re the Inquisitor; you can bring whomever you like!” Dorian looked much more upset than Lavellan had expected. “Just tell her you’re adding me, and –”

“I’m not,” Lavellan sighed, getting up and walking to Dorian. “Listen, I really am sorry. But…” He trailed off. What was he supposed to say? _I have this inkling that something really bad might happen to you?_ He rubbed his eyes. “I just can’t,” he said lamely. 

“Unbelievable,” Dorian snapped. “That’s your reason? Because it’s not a very good one. At all.”

“Well, what’s _your_ reason?” Lavellan retorted. “Why do you want to go so much?!”

Dorian huffed. “As if it even matters. You’ve made your point very clear; I’m not going. Understood, oh great Inquisitor.” He turned to leave. 

Lavellan grabbed his arm. “No, tell me.”

Dorian’s jaw worked. “The last time we went into an elven temple, you almost got yourself killed. The only reason you didn’t was because of a stroke of pure luck and perfect timing. Do you really think you’ll be so lucky again?” He stepped forward, shaking his head. “And I will _not_ be miles away, fretting about whether or not you’re being an idiot. Which you usually are.”

Lavellan tilted his head. “Then where will you be?”

“With you,” Dorian declared. “At your side, as I swore from the start of all this.”

Lavellan blinked, taken aback. What was that warmth in his chest? Not his heart melting, hopefully.

“Besides,” Dorian added more lightly, “if you die in there, that oil I gave you will be utterly wasted. And it was very expensive, mind you.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “I can see where your priorities are.” But after a moment, he relented. “Fine,” he conceded. “You can go, if you want to so badly.”

Dorian beamed. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” Lavellan said, suddenly aware of their proximity and the realization that they hadn’t so much as touched one another in the last six days. “I’ll tell Leliana that Solas will be more helpful to heal the wounded, or something. But I may require a little bit of…persuasion before I make it official.”

Dorian cornered him easily, with a hand on either side of him, resting on the desk. “Persuasion? I suppose I might be able to help with that…”

Lavellan looked up at him from under his lashes, and when he spoke it was breathless. “Are we about to have meaningless sex again?”

Dorian pressed him harder against the desk. “Maker, I hope so.”

In reply, Lavellan tilted his head up and kissed him, strangely soft and gentle all of a sudden, threading his fingers through Dorian’s already messy hair and letting the mage carry him towards the bed, falling back onto the mattress with a little thump. Dorian leaned over him, eyes half-lidded, dragging the pad of his thumb over Lavellan’s lower lip. “Maybe a little less meaningless,” he murmured.

Lavellan’s heart jumped, but he just raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh? You’re going to make sweet love to me and bring me flowers afterwards?”

Dorian made a face. “Or not.” 

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

“No, haven’t you heard?” Dorian chuckled. “According to half of Skyhold, I’m the evil Venatori spy.”

Lavellan paused, pulling back slightly. “Do…do people actually call you that?”

“Oh, not to my face,” Dorian said airily. “But yes, that’s their newest rumor. Honestly, I’m quite used to the gossip by now. _Everyone_ always wants to talk about me. I don’t blame them.”

“Who says that about you?”

Dorian blinked. “It’s really not a problem –”

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me who they are and I’ll make them stop.”

Dorian frowned. “Lavellan, really –”

“They shouldn’t call you that,” Lavellan said fiercely. “You’re a good man, and you’ve killed more Venatori than any of them. I’ll speak to Cullen later and ask him to –”

Dorian shook his head and kissed him, a small, sad smile on his face. “I think perhaps it’s better that you don’t interfere. The Venatori rumors are just the beginning. There are other things they say, things that could truly hurt the Inquisition, and I’d rather not give them more reasons to say them.”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed. “What do they say?”

Dorian looked away. “They…believe I have an undue influence over you. It is far safer for everyone involved if I remain nothing more than a harmless ornament, a pretty thing on your arm.”

“You’ve been spending too much time listening to Mother Giselle, haven’t you?” Lavellan scoffed. “You’re my _friend_ , and I don’t care what else they think. Friends respect each other’s opinions and reputations, as I respect yours. And although you may be a _bit_ on the bossy side in bed, you don’t hear me complaining – and I assure you that whatever influence you have over me is not undue, nor unwelcome.”

Dorian’s smile became a little less sad and he looked slightly misty-eyed, though his expression quickly sharpened and he cocked his head, smirking. “Did you just call me bossy, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan sighed. “Out of all that, that’s what you got from it?”

Dorian blinked innocently. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Perhaps not.” Lavellan made grabby hands at Dorian, tugging the mage close with an inelegant bump of noses and teeth that left both of them snickering. 

“Clearly, you need more practice,” Dorian told him. Lavellan scoffed and kissed him again, and that time Dorian didn’t complain. Lavellan curled his hands into the straps on Dorian’s robes, tugging him closer and drowning in the taste of him until they were both panting and desperate.

Dorian pushed him farther up the bed, crawling in between his legs and grinning lopsidedly down at him, tugging at his sleeves. “This really needs to come off,” he said.

Fumbling with his buttons, voice muffled as he pulled his jacket up and over his head, Lavellan mumbled, “Bossy.”

Dorian snatched his jacket up and tossed it away, undoing the clasps and buckles of his robes. “Oh, I’ll show you bossy,” he said, covering him completely when they were chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin. Lavellan fidgeted, more to vex him than anything, though the breath left him when Dorian pinned his wrists against the pillows. His grip was loose, easy to break, but it was the motion itself that made Lavellan flush and squirm under him. Fenedhis, he was so hard already, and Dorian was quickly catching up.

“Insubordination,” he whispered, barely audible. Dorian was so close that Lavellan could see his own face reflected as tiny, blurry moons in storm-gray irises. 

“ _Persuasion_ ,” Dorian corrected, tightening his grip a little and nuzzling down Lavellan’s neck with a quick sting of teeth soothed by a kiss that would surely leave a mark. That made Lavellan moan, arching up eagerly into Dorian’s hands as he worked his breeches off his hips. Dorian raised an eyebrow when they were off. “Ran out of smalls, did you?”

Lavellan closed his eyes. “Sometimes I forget,” he said faintly.

“Mm,” Dorian said, fingertips ghosting over his cock. “It just won’t do for the Inquisitor to be so absentminded.”

Lavellan gritted his teeth. “I have a lot on my plate.”

Dorian chuckled, an amused tilt to his lips. “Then let me take your mind off all that, hm?”

He dipped his head down and Lavellan’s head fell back helplessly, legs splaying and hips arching up into wet heat. Dorian took his time, as he always did; lapping and teasing until he’d reduced Lavellan to a writhing mess, dragging his tongue down the side of Lavellan’s cock over and over again with no respite.

“Sathan pala em, _please_ ,” he begged, not even caring how ridiculous he must look and sound right now. He felt strung out and on-edge already; and Dorian wasn’t even fully undressed. It wasn’t _fair_.

Dorian looked up, licking his lips. “You’re speaking Elvhen? That’s never happened before.” He looked rather smug. “What does it mean?”

Lavellan, breathing heavily, glared at the ceiling, his cheeks tinged pink. “Not answering that, scorto,” he muttered.

“I’ll ask Solas later,” Dorian said casually.

He turned red. “You will _not_!”

“Then tell me,” Dorian insisted, inching up his body until Lavellan could feel the bulge of Dorian’s cock against his hip, through far too many layers of clothes. “And maybe I’ll even do it.”

Lavellan shuddered, lashes fluttering when Dorian breathed hotly against his stomach. “I asked you to fuck me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Dorian’s eyes darkened. “Gladly,” he said, and then his mouth was on Lavellan’s cock again, taking him in deep enough to make Lavellan gasp and jerk in surprise as he sucked greedily. Dorian Pavus was insatiable in every way when it came to sex, but it was more than that – he might have been a selfish, spoiled brat outside the bedroom, but there was something remarkably selfless in his approach to pleasure. Lavellan tried to convey this to Dorian, but mostly it just came out in broken off little gasps and whimpers. Dorian hummed in reply and Lavellan saw stars.

Dorian’s rhythm faltered and Lavellan blinked down at him, groaning when he saw Dorian reaching for the small bottle at his belt, uncapping it and dipping two fingertips into it, and then into Lavellan, an easy curl of oil and heat. Lavellan bit down hard on his knuckles, grabbing Dorian’s hair with the other hand. Dorian would probably bitch about it later, but for now Lavellan needed that anchor, or he was going to drown. Dorian twisted his fingers savagely in reply and Lavellan made a really, really embarrassing sound. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna – Dorian, you need to – ah!” Dorian pulled off with a wet slurp, squeezing his cock tight at the base with a roguish smirk while continuing to twist the fingers that were currently driving Lavellan mad. “Hate you,” he moaned unconvincingly. “S-so much, Dorian.”

“Lies and slander,” Dorian declared, adding a finger. “You love me.”

“Yes,” Lavellan whispered. It just slipped out, and before either of them could consider the implications of it, Lavellan yanked him down for a messy kiss, managing to work Dorian’s breeches and smalls off (finally) and hooking a leg over the mage’s hips when Dorian’s cock pressed up against his. “Gahh,” he choked out, and Dorian laughed against his throat. 

“Flattering,” he said, though Lavellan was pleased to note it did sound rather strangled. “Is this…are you…”

“Mmm,” Lavellan replied, pushing Dorian’s hand away, empty for only a few desperate moments and then he was fuller than before, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Dorian’s arms braced on either side of him, his breath against Lavellan’s lips, his hips aligned perfectly. They moaned in unison, Lavellan squirming and nodding in reply to all of Dorian’s half-formed questions, letting out a muffled cry into Dorian’s neck when he started to move. “Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” he hissed, sinking his teeth into Dorian’s shoulder and groaning when Dorian jerked forward, hard, sending shockwaves of pleasure up his spine. 

“So beautiful,” Dorian murmured, stroking the side of his face and twisting fingers through his hair, pulling enough to make Lavellan curse. His mouth was slack and open, eyes watering, staring at nothing and everything all at once. It was strange – fucking never used to make him feel like this, like the entire world had narrowed down to him and his partner. It made him forget, about the Mark, about the Breach, about Corypheus – it made him feel so free that he wanted to cry.

He didn’t realize he actually was crying until Dorian’s thumb pressed against his cheek, catching a tear as it fell. Dorian’s body shifted and stilled atop him. “Lavellan?” he whispered. “Did I hurt you?” His concern was painfully genuine, for once not hidden under a veneer of flippancy. 

Lavellan sniffled, mortified and more than a little confused. “Wha-what? No, no, it’s not…you didn’t – ugh.” He turned his face away, trying to hide against the pillow. He closed his eyes, and twitched in surprise when Dorian kissed his cheek, pushing his hair back and looking at him with a worried furrow in his brow. Lavellan rolled his eyes. “Really. I’m fine.”

Dorian paused and started moving again, slower this time. “Why were you crying then?”

Lavellan stretched and let his head fall back, practically purring when Dorian’s fingertips skated over the edges of his ears and down along his sides. He still felt all choked up, especially when he looked up and met the mage’s troubled gaze. “I’m just…” He gasped when Dorian’s hand found his cock. “Overwhelmed,” he managed. Dorian made an encouraging sound, and Lavellan half-glared at him as his hand worked faster, twisting and slicking him up with the remaining oil on his palm. “There’s just…so much going wrong and…and… _shit_ …you make it better. I don’t know.”

“Aw,” Dorian crooned, moving down close to him, his hips falling into a firm, filthy grind. Lavellan gritted his teeth, breath hitching when Dorian lifted his thighs and found a sharper, sweeter angle inside of him. “That’s adorable.”

Lavellan tried to growl but it came out as more of a mangled moan.

“Happy to help,” Dorian laughed, teasing him with short, shallow thrusts that left him writhing, dissatisfied and frantically seeking release. Frustrated, Lavellan tried to switch their positions, twisting his leg more firmly around Dorian and rolling up and over, but Dorian anticipated it and slammed his wrists down against the pillows again, pinning Lavellan with his hips and hands. Dorian’s weight trapped him, hot and heavy, his grip too strong to break this time, the threat of dormant magic humming in the air between them. Lavellan’s pulse fluttered and his lips parted, eyes wide and dark and willing. Dorian blinked and flushed at his expression and then he was tensing and coming, head bowed and muscles taut. 

Lavellan whined in irritation that quickly dissipated when Dorian slid down his body and swallowed him down as far as he could go, shoving three fingers inside as he sucked with purpose. His eyes met Lavellan’s, warm and wicked, and Lavellan let go, following him over the edge with a soft keen. 

When he opened his eyes, Dorian was sitting back on his haunches, wiping his mouth and raising an eyebrow.

“What?” Lavellan muttered, already regretting asking.

“Do you often cry during sex?”

Lavellan threw a hand over his face and then threw a pillow at Dorian for good measure. “Fuck you.”

“I’m fairly certain I just did,” Dorian said smugly. “No, but seriously. Is this an issue I should be made aware of? Because it’s rather off-putting to look down and see your partner weeping –”

“I wasn’t _weeping_!” Lavellan protested indignantly. “There were, like, maybe three tears. And I don’t know why, okay?” He sat up, crossing his arms and wiping at his stomach half-heartedly. “Now can we never speak of this again? Please?”

“Say that in Elvhen, and maybe I’ll consider it,” Dorian snickered.

“You’re a prick.”

“Alright, fine. My lips are sealed.” Dorian got off the bed and rolled his shoulders, turning and giving Lavellan an incredible view of his ass. He narrowed his eyes at it. Yeah, Lavellan was going to get him back someday. _Literally._ Dorian wasn’t the only strong one – nor the only bossy one. 

Dorian’s amused voice snapped him out of it. “Something you want to share?”

Lavellan shrugged. “Nope.” He paused, tilting his head. “Just thinking about switching things up.”

“Oh?” Dorian looked positively intrigued. “My interest is piqued.”

He smirked. “An experiment for another day. I’m exhausted.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course.”

Lavellan laid back on the bed, fingers tracing patterns mindlessly over his chest. “Besides, I don’t think I could be persuaded to do anything to you unless you begged me in Tevene first. Even then, I might have to hold you down, make sure you really wanted it.” He cracked an eye open. Dorian had paused at the end of the bed, gaping at him. “Anyway, have I mentioned how tired I am? It’s getting rather late…I think you ought to go.”

“You’re such a frustrating man,” Dorian complained, but as he gathered up his clothes and passed the bed, he touched Lavellan’s shoulder. “Goodnight,” he said, soft and quiet. 

Idly, Lavellan contemplated asking him to stay. To sleep here, with him, for the whole night – not to as a friend to comfort Lavellan, as he had done before, but as a lover to lay with ‘til the morning before the battle begun... 

But that was not something they did. So he just said, “Goodnight,” right back and left it at that, though he would regret it hours later when he woke up cold and lonely, lingering memories of Dorian mocking him even in his dreams, leaving him feeling like crying all over again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for the slightly late update this week - my laptop has been throwing tantrums all weekend so let's just keep our fingers crossed that it's not anything too serious.
> 
> Another monstrously long chapter for you all - hope you enjoy! And sometime soon, there may be some very lovely art for this story, probably in the next few weeks...I'm expecting this to be at least 12 chapters, likely even more. 
> 
> Thank you for your continued support, keep the love coming - it makes me smile so much, you don't even know.
> 
> (oh, and this was the last sex scene in the story lol hope it was climactic enough - pun intended.)

The days spent traveling to the Arbor Wilds were an anxious blur for Lavellan, mostly spent trying to learn complicated war strategies while inwardly fretting about whether or not he was going to deeply regret his decision to bring Dorian along. Dorian certainly didn’t have any misgivings about it – he showed his enthusiasm quite clearly every night in his tent – but then again, _he_ wasn’t plagued by foreboding dreams haunted by an unknown harbinger of death.

Lavellan was getting increasingly concerned about that, to the point where he resolved to try to talk to Solas about it. Again. The apostate hadn’t given him very helpful (or pleasant) answers last time, but…Lavellan was desperate. It seemed that every time he closed his eyes, that…that thing was there, lurking at the edges of his vision, murmuring dark, terrible things.

So after a particularly late war meeting on the eve of the battle, Lavellan stole away from the tent and managed to get through the camp unnoticed, standing before Solas’s tent on the outskirts. How he’d managed to get one so big and all to himself, Lavellan didn’t know, but then again nobody was exactly clamoring to sleep with him.

Ugh. He didn’t need that mental image. 

Thankfully, Solas was already outside the tent, casting spells quietly several feet away with his back turned. Protective wards of some kind, Lavellan supposed, but despite their benignity, Solas’s magic still made him deeply uneasy. “Solas?” he said, stepping forward. 

Solas stiffened and turned, relaxing slightly when he saw Lavellan, though his gaze was still guarded. His eyes flicked down to Lavellan’s left hand as if expecting the mark to be active. “Yes, Inquisitor? Is something the matter?”

Lavellan inclined his head and went to him, hunching his shoulders, unsure of how to begin. “You remember how I spoke to you months ago…about the dream I had after Din’an Hanin?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Solas hesitated. “Have these dreams…continued?”

“Yes,” Lavellan muttered. “Almost every night now. And always that same creature, the one who said…” He swallowed. “Except I saw its face once.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t _have_ a face, Solas,” he hissed. “It’s…it’s…” He closed his eyes. “A banal’ras. That’s what it looks like.”

“A shadow?” Solas asked, tilting his head in bewilderment. Of course, he wouldn’t know the Dalish slang – it was a nickname for something far worse.

“A Forgotten One,” Lavellan whispered. 

Solas paused. “Inquisitor…you said you did not believe in the Elvhen gods. Not the Creators…and not their darker counterparts, either. So why do you think –”

“I don’t know!” Lavellan exclaimed, frantic. “But it kept…talking about a betrayal.” He frowned. “The Forgotten Ones were betrayed. By Fen’Harel. It could have been a…a hint about its nature. Or something.”

“A hint,” Solas said dryly, turning back to his staff. “Inquisitor, might I suggest that you retire early tonight? I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”

“I saw it in the eluvian,” Lavellan said. _That_ got Solas’s attention. He froze, brow lowering and gaze settling on Lavellan again. “Yes. When Morrigan took me into the eluvian at Skyhold, it was there. Or something like it was. She didn’t see it, but I swear…it was like a shadow made real. An _elvhen_ shadow. Just like the one in my dreams.”

Solas exhaled. “You are certain of this, Inquisitor? That you saw it…while you were awake. Outside of your dreams.”

“Yes,” Lavellan murmured. “But…it wasn’t quite…corporeal.”

“Oh?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous. But it was ghostly. In my dream, it called itself an echo.” He remembered something else. “And it spoke of…others.”

“What did it say of them?” Solas asked tightly. 

“I…” He struggled to remember the broken fragments of the dream. “I asked if it was a spirit. It said ‘not yet,’ but implied that the others were. It didn’t want to become that…it said something about time running out…”

Solas had gone very pale. Well. Paler than usual. “Solas? What is it?”

“If you ever see it outside of your dreams again, Inquisitor,” he replied, “stay far away from it. I do not know what it is, but it doesn’t sound like any spirit I’ve encountered before. More like a demon – and one who seems intent on getting something from you.”

“What?” Lavellan asked, confused. “I have nothing to give.”

Again, Solas’s eyes flicked down to his hand. “Perhaps you do.”

“A demon couldn’t take the Mark from me,” Lavellan scoffed. “Corypheus tried, and even he couldn’t do it! What makes you think –”

“Stay away from it,” Solas repeated. “Please, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan frowned. “Alright,” he muttered. 

“And good luck in the temple tomorrow, Inquisitor,” Solas added, his smile a bit too sharp to be genuine. “I hope the Tevinter serves you well.”

Lavellan smiled back sweetly, ignoring the mage’s mocking tone. “Oh, trust me. He always does.”

*

Before retiring to his tent, Lavellan crossed the camp once more, again going to the outskirts -- though not to consult another grumpy elf about his nightmares. It was to say goodnight to a friend, perhaps more than a friend…Lavellan found himself calling Nira ‘lethallan’ sometimes. He didn’t think much of it, at first…but maybe he should have. It was what one called their clan mates, their family members. 

But now, he had none of those left.

Sometimes, though, Nira felt like she was family. Like even though he was a small elf and she was a high dragon, they shared… _something_ in common. Maybe the high dragons remembered the elves somehow, remembered them from long, long ago, like a muscle memory, a deeply-buried instinct that made Nira respond the way she did to the words he spoke softly to her in the lost language of his ancestors. Those words were foreign yet familiar to both of them, it seemed.

“Ara isenatha,” he called, crossing the barrier between camp and forest, peering into the darkness for a tell-tale sweep of scarlet scales. He’d long since dropped the diminutive in her epithet – she was no longer a ‘little’ dragon at all. “Nira?”

A low rumble answered, followed by the creak and slide of her armored body, emerging from the makeshift cave she’d created in the hollow of a dry riverbed, leaves clinging to her horns and claws haphazardly. He smiled fondly, reaching up to her, and she lowered her head obediently with a soft snort of smoke, settling down in the undergrowth and nuzzling his side. He stroked her scales absentmindedly, still finding it hard to believe that this wonderful creature chose to stay with him. 

“You could go anywhere,” he murmured, tracing the strong line of her horned jaw, up to the jagged ridges above her molten eyes which were fixed wholly on him. “You know that, right? You don’t have to be here – it will be dangerous, even for a fierce warrior like you, lethallan.”

She rumbled again, deep in her throat, and it sounded almost like laughter. She stayed firmly put. 

“Have it your way,” he chuckled, sitting down himself, leaning back against her smoothly plated chest and sighing. “If anything goes wrong in the temple tomorrow…you’ll make sure Dorian doesn’t get hurt, right?”

Nira’s smoke filled the air, acrid and definitely disapproving. She recognized his name, at least. 

“Please?” Lavellan tried, then in Elvhen for good measure. “Sathan?”

She grumbled, but bowed her head slightly. Then she nudged his shoulder gently, as if to ask, _But what about you?_

“Oh, I’m the mighty Inquisitor,” Lavellan assured her lightly. “Don’t worry about me.”

Nira huffed and gave him an almost disapproving look. Of course, she could probably gather he was not exactly mighty, but he _was_ capable of defending himself. Then again, so was Dorian. But…he just had to make _sure_.

“Hey,” Lavellan said quietly, pressing a small kiss to the tip of her curved muzzle, “don’t worry, really. With any luck, tomorrow will go just fine, and nobody will be worse for the wear other than some scrapes and bruises.” He patted her shoulder. “So rest up, lethallan – a sleepy dragon doesn’t make a very mighty foe. And tomorrow morning, I’ll find some August Ram for your breakfast! How does that sound?”

She stomped a paw affirmatively, bumping him hard with her head, playful and affectionate as she’d been as a hatchling. Except this time, he almost fell over. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughed, steadying himself with hands on her horns. “Goodnight, lethallan.”

He wondered how many others had been lucky enough to send a dragon off to bed. Fenedhis, he really was turning into Nira’s mother or something. But who could blame him? She was nothing short of magnificent.

*

Dorian was waiting in the tent by the time he got there, already halfway asleep, from the looks of it. It was nearly midnight, so that was understandable. Lavellan closed the tent flap quickly and wondered if Dorian might be so tired that he’d actually stay here tonight. Like Solas, he had a tent to himself, spoiled as ever – though to be honest he spent more time in Lavellan’s than his own. 

But he never did spend the night. Lavellan understood – it would attract more attention than was wanted. Their nightly escapades would have alerted the whole Inquisition as to what was happening if not for the wards Dorian had set up all around the tent – silencing wards, since Lavellan was…not very good at being quiet. He was very _expressive_ , alright?

Still…Lavellan wondered how long this would go on. He…he actually almost wanted the Inquisition to know about this…this unnamed affair going on between the two of them. Keeping it secret had been exciting at first, but now he doubted if he could continue to do so. Infuriatingly, Dorian seemed fine with continuing everything in private, mostly behind closed doors. Or maybe he was just putting on airs, as he always did. Maybe…maybe he wanted to make it official too?

Probably not. 

Lavellan was halfway under the blankets when Dorian stirred and blinked at him drowsily. “There you are,” he said with a yawn. “I almost expected to wake up only to find the sun was up and you were still off doing…whatever it is you do.”

“Important Inquisitor business, I assure you,” Lavellan promised. He ducked down to kiss Dorian, not missing the sluggishness of the other’s movements. Clearly, the man was exhausted – he’d been training nonstop with Vivienne and Bull for most of the day, it was no wonder. Those two could tire anyone out, even someone as effervescent as Dorian. 

“It better have been important,” Dorian mumbled, his eyes half-closed again already. “Kept me waiting for…far too long. Very rude.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes, running a hand through Dorian’s hair. He must’ve really been worn out, because he didn’t even try to stop Lavellan from messing it up terribly. “You should probably just sleep,” he advised. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day and –”

Dorian made a distinct sound of disapproval. “Oh, no you don’t! I did not wait here for you only for you to tuck me into bed like a nursemaid, Lavellan. Besides, it’s not like you last very long anyway.” He raised an eyebrow.

Lavellan sat back on his heels glared at him (although it was, admittedly, true enough). “Was that a challenge?”

“Hmm…now, there’s an idea,” Dorian mused, smirking. His voice was a bit more alert, but his eyes were still dark and unfocused. It was an unfairly attractive look on him, and Lavellan found himself kicking back the blankets, pleased to find him already bare, moving between the mage’s thighs and running calloused hands up and over his hips and chest. Dorian shivered, but made absolutely no move to stop him. “I like where this is going,” he said breathily.

Lavellan chuckled, leaning over him on all fours, hands teasing down his stomach, sliding over the tip of his cock. “I can see that,” he said. Dorian whined at his touch but Lavellan ignored the plea, reaching instead for the bottle of oil he kept at his belt most days – the magical oil Dorian had given him. Dorian’s eyes widened and he moaned aloud, arching up invitingly. Lavellan grinned. “Oh? Something you wanted?”

Dorian turned his face against the pillows. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?” he mumbled. 

“Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.” (Lavellan was really wondering the same thing. This was _fun_.)

“Oh, very well, I’ll beg if it’ll make you hurry up,” Dorian snapped impatiently. 

“Hurry up?” Lavellan dragged his teeth along Dorian’s collar, coupled with fingers stroking his inner thighs, drifting slowly inward. “I thought you wanted me to last a long time? Which means you have to last a long time too, ara’len.”

“Pretty words,” Dorian said, his own words dissolving into a gasp when Lavellan uncorked the oil and let it drip onto his skin. “But less talking, more doing. Or have you never done this before?”

Lavellan, in reply, dipped a long finger in the oil and slid it inside Dorian with no further preamble, relishing in the needy groan that tore from the mage’s throat. “What do you think?” he asked. “You’re smart, Dorian – surely you didn’t just assume I rolled over for every man who came my way.”

Somehow, he still had a snarky retort ready. “Yes, well, you rolled over for me. Many times – _ahh. Yes. That._ ”

Lavellan twisted his finger again. Dorian twitched. “True, and I’m glad I did. But it’s not the only role I like, nor the only one I’m good at.”

“I think I’m going to need you to prove that to me,” Dorian whispered. 

Lavellan’s finger stilled, much to Dorian’s dismay. “Magic word?” he prompted.

Dorian rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “ _Please_ , dear Inquisitor.”

“Please what?”

Dorian closed his eyes, baring his neck languidly. “Please fuck me.”

Lavellan laughed quietly, sliding a second finger alongside the first. “It’s odd, hearing it from your end,” he admitted against Dorian’s neck.

“Not my fault you love to beg,” Dorian shot back. Lavellan bit him for that, curling his fingers in tandem. Creators, he loved the way Dorian’s skin tasted – rich and sweet like a heady perfume. The harsh bite became a soft, sucking kiss that left Dorian squirming, trying to pull Lavellan closer with his legs. He had pretty strong legs, so it was actually working quite well. “Kaffas, you have too many clothes,” he complained, tugging halfheartedly at the front of Lavellan’s vest. 

“Now you know how I feel,” Lavellan countered, but he abandoned the collection of bruises on Dorian’s neck in favor of undoing his buttons, shrugging off the leather vest and softer shirt, and then unlacing breeches that had suddenly became far too tight for comfort. He sighed when they were successfully off, and cursed aloud when his freed cock slid against Dorian’s thigh, painting slick trails over dusky skin. Lavellan would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about doing this many times, and now that he was being given the chance, with Dorian completely willing beneath him? He was not going to waste this opportunity.

He decided to take it as an omen of good fortune for tomorrow.

“Look at you,” Dorian breathed, though this time there was no sardonic note in his voice. “ _Auriolus._ ”

Lavellan flushed and kissed him deeply, catching Dorian’s moan against his lips when he added a third finger, well-aware they were both more than ready. But he savored this, the moments of desperation as Dorian writhed and whimpered against him – yet he trusted Lavellan would give him what he wanted, eventually. If he did not, he could have lit Lavellan on fire in a heartbeat, or simply manhandled him off and away. But no – Lavellan had single-handedly reduced Lord Dorian of House Pavus to this gorgeous mess. He was a being of power and beauty and he was _his_. Lavellan growled at the thought and rocked his hips against Dorian’s, hard. Dorian grasped at him, begging unashamedly now in sleep-slurred, foreign phrases. He shuddered all over when Lavellan finally gave in and replaced his fingers with something better, and it was as if some of the tension left him all at once, replaced by a faint, satisfied gleam in his eyes and an easy compliance in his body. 

Lavellan groaned, hips rolling in slow, steady thrusts that made Dorian’s eyes glaze over. It was nearly too much, between the new sensation and the special oil and the sheer radiance of Dorian himself, but Lavellan gritted his teeth and buried his face against Dorian’s shoulder, holding him close and falling into a rhythm. 

It was…nice. Maybe that seemed like an underwhelming description, but that was the first thing that came to Lavellan’s mind. It wasn’t messy or quick or wild. It was just really, really nice. Dorian went almost completely pliant after the first few minutes, and at first Lavellan worried something might be wrong (Dorian wasn’t exactly quiet by nature, after all), but when he tried to ask Dorian just mumbled happily and pulled him into a warm, lazy kiss. That shut him up quite effectively. 

Lavellan tried and failed to remember the last time he had sex quite like this with anyone. So he stopped trying, and instead focused wholeheartedly on Dorian, petting the hollows of his hips, trailing kisses over his ears and throat, finding which spots made him moan and pant the most. The best spot actually made Dorian keen, a low, wanting sound that made Lavellan both proud to have caused it and all the more determined to make him repeat it. 

“Good?” Lavellan murmured, although it was patently obvious that Dorian was enjoying this. 

“Yes,” he managed, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. “So good, you’re so good, please, can I…I want to…”

“Of course,” Lavellan told him soothingly, his palm falling lower to where Dorian was heavy and thick, leaking at the tip and lending extra slickness to his grip. It didn’t take long at all, and the sight of Dorian trembling and arching in the glow of the candlelight was something he would not forget (and didn’t want to forget) for a very long time.

Lavellan kissed him through it, one arm draped almost protectively around his waist. It made him feel as though he were holding something delicate and precious and vulnerable, and in a way he supposed he was.

Lavellan was so focused on Dorian’s pleasure that it almost took him by surprise when his own heartbeat stuttered and he came with a soft moan that could have been a certain mage’s name. Dorian petted clumsily at his face before letting his hand fall limply to his side, eyes closing completely. 

Lavellan waited for him to get up, get dressed, and leave as he always did. But instead he just tossed a spare towel at Lavellan and, when they were satisfactorily clean, Dorian tugged him closer and snuggled up to Lavellan’s chest under their nest of blankets. He was asleep before Lavellan could so much as protest.

Not that he had any intention of doing so. Maybe this was the universe’s apology gift for all the shit it had thrown at him in the last year and a half. And Lavellan accepted it gladly, curling against Dorian’s familiar body and letting his own eyes fall shut.

That night, he didn’t dream of anything but golden sunshine and cinnamon skin. 

*

The next morning dawned earlier than Lavellan would have liked, but it was alright because Dorian was still there, just as disheveled and irritable when he awoke as Lavellan would have guessed he’d be. He didn’t mind. It was still worth it.

Dorian managed to get up and get dressed as Lavellan had gotten his armor and boots on, after which he kissed him and said, “Try not to do anything particularly foolish today, Inquisitor.”

“Since when have I ever done anything foolish?” Lavellan asked, immediately thinking of at least three examples even as he said it.

Dorian gave him a look. 

Lavellan sighed and leaned down, picking something up from his pack and holding it out to Dorian. It was one of the two message crystals – the other one he wore himself. “Here. Take this…just in case foolishness occurs.”

Dorian accepted it, but frowned as he fastened it around his neck. He reached out, touching Lavellan’s cheek lightly. “Lavellan…I want you to know, in case anything does happen, that –”

Cullen walked into the tent. 

“Inquisitor, we are ready to – oh.”

Dorian stepped away from him quickly, snatching his hand away as if burned. Lavellan tried and failed not to feel too bad about it.

“Commander,” he greeted. “Good morning.”

Cullen coughed nervously. He was well on his way to becoming bright red. But Dorian simply waved a hand and turned to go, patting Cullen on the shoulder as he went. “I was just discussing some of the possible surprises in the temple with our Inquisitor. And receiving this lovely gift, apparently.” He twirled the crystal. “I shall see you both on the front lines later, then!”

Cullen looked utterly lost in Dorian’s wake (and still more than a little mortified), but coughed again and continued. “We are ready to advance at your command, Inquisitor,” he finished. “Leliana’s scouts have started skirmishes on the enemy’s outer defenses, which should make it easy for us to clear a path through them and secure a route for you and your party to the temple. We’ll secure a forward camp as close to the temple as we can, but…bring your best boots.”

“Understood,” Lavellan said, actually excited at the idea of traipsing through a forest. (Dorian, however, would probably not be.) “Any other news?”

Cullen nodded grimly. “There are reports of several dozen Red Templar Behemoths located along the river. They will put up a fight.”

Lavellan considered that. “Hmm…perhaps it would work to have Nira try to clear them out from the air? She did a number on one before, I’m sure she could do it again now that she’s…much larger.”

“Good thinking, Inquisitor. Oh, and one last thing…we’re not just fighting Corypheus’s forces. From the sound of it, there’s some kind of…guerilla force killing both his men and ours. Very small numbers, but they seem to all be skilled archers and assassins. Just stay alert,” Cullen advised.

Lavellan agreed, though he was rather intrigued now. Unknown assassins in the Wilds? Curious indeed. And also maybe very bad. He touched the crystal around his neck and swallowed hard.

Cullen watched him carefully. “Is…everything alright, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan smiled weakly. “What? Oh, of course. Everything is fine, Commander. I’ll get Emily saddled up and make sure Nira is ready…in the meantime, please give the order to march. We wouldn’t want to let Corypheus beat us there just because of an elf who sleeps in too late, right?”

But Cullen didn’t laugh. “Nobody blames you for wanting to rest, Inquisitor. And after this is over, hopefully you’ll be able to rest for a very long time.”

“I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking, Commander,” Lavellan chuckled, and sent Cullen on his way.

*

Most of the Inquisition was already packed up and on the move by the time Lavellan loaded his tent and supplies onto one of the brontos with the help of some enthusiastic city elves. The only possessions he kept on his person were his leather boots, the gloves Vivienne had given him, his best armor, the crystal, his usual small dagger, and the bow Cassandra and Dagna had made. He’d named the bow Fen, and it was a comforting, thrumming weight against his back even while out of combat.

Emily was secured to a nearby tree, and snorted as he passed, likely impatient to get going. Lavellan, unfortunately, did not share her excitement. This whole mission still filled him with indescribable dread, and he wasn’t sure why.

Perhaps Nira picked up on his apprehension, or maybe even felt the same way, because she was waiting at the edge of the clearing for him. Her eyes were bright and her ears pricked – he wondered if she could hear the fighting from here. 

The last of the brontos trundled off, followed by their elf and Qunari keepers. Lavellan needed to hurry up – at this rate he was going to have to make Emily gallop the whole way if he wanted to have any chance of getting to the front lines.

But he had to make sure Nira knew what to do. He doubted she could understand everything he said to her, but there was intelligence in her gaze and he liked to think she got the main idea of the plan. “Just don’t let yourself get shot down by any of that red lyrium,” he warned. “I don’t think either of us want to find out what it’ll do to you – Corypheus’s dragon being a prime example.”

Nira grunted and tossed her head. 

“Exactly. So I hope you’re good at dodging. When we get into the temple, you’re going to need to – Nira?”

The dragon had frozen, nostrils flared and jaws opening. Her head whipped around, searching for something in the trees. The back of Lavellan’s neck prickled, and he moved closer to her side. The abandoned camp was dead silent – and in the forest, that was never a good sign.

Nira’s growl rumbled through the air, and slowly their attackers made themselves known – cloaked figures emerging from the shadows, each armed with glittering knives. Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. There were at least ten of them, surrounding them on all sides and closing in with clear intent. So these were the mysterious guerilla fighters Cullen had warned him about.

Then they said something, repeating it in what could almost be called a chant. “Alin,” they whispered, unmistakeably furious. “Alin, alin, alin…”

Lavellan blinked. That was elvhen for ‘stranger.’ 

Elves? In the Wilds? But…

Nira snarled, her wings unfurling. The strange elves paused, then continued to advance. And it became clear – they weren’t trying to attack Nira. She was not the stranger. Their blades were aimed only at him. 

The first one lunged, and Nira’s roar deafened Lavellan as she lashed out, kicking the elf aside effortlessly with a heavy front paw. But the others just kept coming. Lavellan stared at them wildly, and then pushed at Nira’s side, gripping the crest on her neck. “Go! Get out of here, Nira, fly, _sylvira_ , now!”

And so she did. But not without bringing Lavellan with her.

She launched herself into the air with a shriek that Lavellan echoed, clinging to her neck crest and screaming as the ground rushed away from him, and the assassins with it. His legs dangled in midair, scrabbling desperately against smooth scales to try to find a purchase. His hands were slipping, and when he chanced another look down…it was a safe bet that if he fell from this height, he would be reduced to little more than toothpicks.

In a stroke of sheer luck, one boot caught a jagged scale and he heaved himself up, pulse thundering in his ears…or maybe that was the wind? His sweaty palms clutched her crest like a lifeline, even after he’d settled himself more securely at the base of her neck. Horses were made to be ridden. Arguably, halla were made to be ridden.

But dragons? Lavellan was not convinced. This was horrible. He closed his eyes tightly and held on even tighter. The rush of air from her powerful wingbeats chilled his skin along with the rising altitude, and he dug his heels into her shoulders in a pitiful attempt to make her fly lower or land or stop or _something_. 

Maybe she got the hint, or maybe he was just too heavy for her – either way, she did dip down, a steady decline towards the treetops that made Lavellan feel more than a little sick. And that was when he heard it.

Cheering. Deafening, ecstatic cheering from the ground – from the Inquisition’s sprawling army, paused in their march, all of their heads tilted up to look at their Inquisitor riding his dragon. (Or rather, trying not to die. It was all a matter of perspective.)

Nira, enjoying the attention, roared, flickering fire filling the sky and singing Lavellan’s hair slightly. The cheers grew louder. Lavellan managed to crack a smile…and then he almost fell off when he distinctly heard Dorian say, “This. This is what I meant by not doing anything foolish today.” He was looking around frantically, trying to figure out how Dorian could’ve gotten up here, when his voice added, “The crystal, Lavellan. Really, for such a clever man you can be so silly.”

“Oh.” Lavellan glanced down at his chest, where the crystal was lit up. “I, um…yes, sorry. Fenedhis, Dorian, I did not plan this, trust me, I feel like I’m going to tumble to my death at any moment –”

“Shush, you look very regal from down here,” Dorian replied. “And don’t you dare fall off. That would absolutely crush the soldiers’ morale. It’s at a very high point right now, trust me. If you’re feeling ambitious, I’m confident we could conquer Orlais after this.”

Lavellan let out a choked laugh. “Thanks, but I think I’ll refrain from any conquering for now. How far away is the temple? I can’t see anything through the trees.”

“Close, I believe. You should maybe think about getting back to the ground right about now. And avoid crushing an entire regiment? Just a suggestion.”

“Helpful,” Lavellan gritted out. “Alright, Nira, we need to go down now, can you just…gently…AH NO, NO, THAT IS NOT GENTLE!”

Dragons were more accustomed to endless downward death spirals than gentle landings, apparently. And Dorian probably had to listen to him screaming the whole way down. Oops.

Not all of that screaming was terrified, though. By the time he got his feet back on solid ground, he was grinning madly, his blood singing and his heart pumping much more strongly than before. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to do that again sometime. Nira nuzzled his side playfully like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen exclaimed, rushing over to him with the Captain in tow. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“A story for another day,” Lavellan said resolutely, turning to him. “Right now, it’s time to do what we came here for. Let’s show Corypheus who the real threat is, shall we?”

*

“Boss, you rode a dragon!”

Lavellan rolled his eyes, firing Fen and impaling a Red Templar Shadow who was trying to sneak up on Cassandra. “Yes, Bull. Yes I did. We’ve been over this.” This was the fifth time in their thirty minutes of hard-fought progress that Bull had brought it up.

“You rode a _dragon_ ,” Bull repeated, his greataxe slashing through the air and cleaving a plucky Venatori Knight Enchanter in half. 

“Somehow, you managed to make that sound like an innuendo, and somehow I’m not surprised,” Dorian remarked, spinning past them as a Behemoth exploded into purple flames. Lavellan glared at him before finishing it off with a volley of arrows. “What? You were thinking it too.”

“Ugh,” Lavellan and Cassandra said at the same time. Cassandra was his favorite party member, he quickly decided. (Along with Nira, who had just cooked a dozen rebel Grey Wardens in their armor via dragonflame, and Morrigan, who was…well, he was fairly certain that angry bear was her.)

“What was it like?” Bull pressed, even as Lavellan not-so-subtly moved out of melee range. That axe was very big, and Bull wasn’t exactly careful with it. “Incredible?”

“I actually almost threw up,” Lavellan told him. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Aw, c’mon, boss!”

“And no, you can’t ride her.”

Bull pouted. Dorian snickered.

Cassandra, on the other hand, actually did her job.

*

They’d fought their way through more Red Templars and ensorcelled mages than Lavellan cared to count by the time the Temple of Mythal loomed up before them. It _would_ be dedicated to Mythal, he thought as Nira landed heavily beside them, driving off the last few stragglers who still had some fight left in them with a small inferno. The statues of the dragon-winged goddess towered up above them on either side of the imposing entrance, a long, dark tunnel that seemed to lead to…another forest? 

Lavellan cast a last look back at the battlefield – the Inquisition soldiers were closing in securely enough, but he still hated the idea of leaving them all out here to die for him while he stumbled through the temple. But Morrigan seemed to have no such hesitation, and strode through the tunnel, faltering halfway through. “I hear fighting ahead,” she murmured, head cocked. 

Nira, crouched and on guard, growled lowly in agreement.

The tunnel ended in a balcony covered in corpses – not a good sign.

“Down,” Lavellan hissed, peering over the edge of the balcony at the scene below. Samson stood at the temple’s entrance, flanked by Red Templars…and Corypheus himself. But they’d expected that. What they hadn’t expected was the group of elves standing opposite, in between two ancient statues of bowing dragons. The hooded elves from before…but what were they doing here? And what did they think they could hope to do against Corypheus and his army?

“Na malana sur banallen,” the elves’ leader snarled.

_Your time has come, darkspawn._

In reply, Corypheus tossed the lifeless body of one of the elves at the leader’s feet. “These are but remnants,” he said, stalking towards the small group. “They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

Lavellan turned to Morrigan, confused. “Well of Sorrows?” She shrugged helplessly. 

“Shush, and look,” Dorian hissed, nudging his shoulder. The leader of the elves flicked his hand and the statues filled with light from within, a silvery blue not unlike lyrium. Corypheus faltered only for a moment, then stepped between the two statues…and was immediately seized between crackling twin beams of the light, which wrapped around his limbs and neck, hopelessly ensnaring him.

Frantic and furious, he reached out and grasped the leader of the elves as if to crush him…but then the light exploded into searing brightness, scorching the very flesh from his bones. The elf was flung back to the ground, where he landed lightly, smiling grimly at the crumbling magister for a moment before fleeing back into the temple’s depths with the others, swallowed up by the trees.

The light became blinding, and to Lavellan’s confusion, in the unbearable burst of brilliance that followed, he felt the same magic that he felt around Solas, but multiplied to the nth degree. The chaotic, powerful energy made his skin thrum and his head ache, the Mark glowing faintly with a painful twinge. He quickly closed his palm so nobody would notice – it was probably nothing. Elvhen magic, Elvhen Mark, right?

When they peeked back over the railing, Samson and his men were following the elves, and Corypheus was still nowhere in sight. Nira raised her head warily, leaping over the balcony and sniffing at the fallen bodies with suspicion, her hackles raised. 

“Can it be?” Cassandra murmured as they cautiously descended the stairs. “Is he really…gone?”

“I think not,” Morrigan muttered, shaking her head. “Why would Samson continue with the attack if he was? But then where…?”

“Boss?” Iron Bull said, sounding almost nervous. “That Warden was dead, and now he’s, uh… _moving_.”

Lavellan turned slowly. One of the fallen Wardens, his chest covered in blood, was twitching sporadically, shuddering as if coming to consciousness…no, that wasn’t it. His steadily increasing jerking movements looked like the corpses in Din’an Hanin – he was still very much dead.

But something inside of him was not. And it was…it was trying to get _out_. The sick sound of flesh ripping shattered the uneasy peace, and Lavellan leapt back, eyes wide as the man’s chest bulged and then began to split.

“No,” Morrigan whispered, transfixed with horror. “That is…not possible…”

“What are you waiting for?” Dorian cried, making a beeline for the way Samson and the elves had gone. “Go!”

“Across the bridge!” Lavellan ordered, the Warden’s frame distorting and cracking as a monstrous hand broke free of his ribcage. “Now!”

They ran as fast as they could…and then, somehow, even faster as the screech of Corypheus’s dragon came from overhead. Nira managed to send a jet of flame at it before they all tumbled inside the temple’s massive doors, slamming them shut just as the red lyrium wave hit, knocking them all backwards.

The dragon roared furiously outside, but the doors were sealed magically with a shimmer of golden energy. Lavellan wasn’t sure whether or not to be reassured by that – the dragon couldn’t get in now, but they couldn’t get out.

Nira roared right back, the sound ringing throughout the quiet inner sanctum. Morrigan winced, brushing herself off primly as she stood. “Your pet will alert all of Corypheus’s forces to our location,” she snapped. 

Lavellan got to his feet and turned to her, eyes narrowing. “She’s not my pet, Lady Morrigan. And if she does – good. A large, concentrated group is easier to burn to a crisp all at once, right Nira?” 

Nira growled, tail lashing and ears flattening against her skull. She kept glancing around, craning her neck up towards the sky as if expecting to find enemies in the trees. “Boss, she doesn’t seem to like it here much,” Bull muttered, folding his arms. “And I gotta agree with her. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Well, I think it’s beautiful,” Dorian countered, studying the softly glowing door with interest. “This is strong, ancient magic…incredible that it’s remained here all these years. Perhaps it was maintained somehow…those elves certainly seemed to know what they were doing.”

“I encountered them earlier,” Lavellan said. “They tried to attack me, actually…thus, I ended up riding Nira to escape. But they spoke in Elvhen…” And then he realized something else. “And they all had Mythal’s vallaslin.”

“Curious,” Morrigan said, tilting her head. “Perhaps they are devoted worshippers? Or even her servants – ”

“I’m not sure I’m inclined to believe anything you claim to know about this place,” Cassandra interrupted with a frown. “You said Corypheus seeks an eluvian here…but he said nothing of that. He spoke only of a ‘Well of Sorrows.’ Which is right?”

Morrigan frowned right back. “I…I am uncertain of what he referred to,” she admitted.

Lavellan furrowed his brow. 

“Yes, I was wrong!” she exclaimed. “Does that please you?”

Nira rumbled affirmatively. Lavellan (completely unintentionally) tucked a strand of hair away, drawing attention to his ears. Ears which Morrigan, for all her supposed knowledge, did not and never would have. But she was trying to help, and though he didn’t fully trust nor like her…

“Perhaps there is an eluvian _and_ a Well,” he suggested. Morrigan relaxed, and looked a bit surprised. “Either way…we need to stop Corypheus from reaching it. Agreed?”

There was a murmured chorus of yeses from the party and a soft nudge from Nira. Fen hummed against his back, and the Mark thrummed in his palm. The air itself seemed to be alive – crackling with the now-familiar intensity of Elvhen magic. Lavellan took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Then let’s go.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an even longer chapter! ahhh i have no concept of word count anymore.
> 
> Just for reference, in this chapter Nira is about six to sevenish feet tall (about 2 m) at the shoulder, so she's slightly taller than the largest horse in the world (lol for photo reference here you go: http://www.horsetango.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/869/2015/03/Big-Jake-the-tallest-horse-in-the-world-1024x682.jpg), plus her wingspan which is 2-3 meters-ish and her tail which is as long as she is tall, if not longer.  
> So she's getting there, but still not nearly as big as her mama, or her mysterious father...she'll probably reach up to 10 feet/3 m by the end of the story. Her father was a big dude, as you'll see soon...now it's time for the real plot to kick in. *rubs hands together*
> 
> I'm excited. Are you?

“So,” Dorian said casually, “did anyone else see Corypheus return to life, or was that just me?”

“Unfortunately, we all saw it,” Lavellan muttered. “We also saw him obliterated just moments before.”

“His life force passes on to any blighted creature, darkspawn or Warden,” Morrigan mused.

Cassandra paused. “That would explain why Hawke and Varric failed to kill him the first time…but why? Why does he have this power?”

“How many times do we have to kill him?” Bull grumbled.

“It does not matter how many times we try to kill him,” Morrigan said. “Strike Corypheus down…and he will rise anew.”

Lavellan shook his head. He didn’t need more things to worry about right now. “We’ll find a way to stop him once we’re done here,” he told them. “Hopefully,” he added under his breath. He hurried along the stone pathway until he reached a strange, raised platform surrounded by golden latticework. Carefully, he climbed up the crumbling steps, nearly jumping back in shock when the first stone square lit up under his feet, giving off a soft chime and a bluish glow. Nira took several large steps back.

“A-ha!” Dorian exclaimed. “I knew the temple’s magic was still intact! Oh, this is incredible –”

Bull growled. “Weird magic glow-rocks. Great. Let’s just keep moving, boss.”

Cassandra folded her arms. “I agree. Inquisitor, we have no time to –”

“Wait,” Lavellan said, stepping forward and pointing to the stone protruding from the platform’s center. “This is Ancient Elvhen writing…” Morrigan went to have a look, brushing aside the vines that had begun to cover the old runes. “Atish’al vir’abelasan…” He furrowed his brow. “Enter…the place of sorrows?” His eyes narrowed. “The Well.” But the rest of it was nearly impossible to make out.

Morrigan frowned. “Something about knowledge. Then, respectful…or pure…shiven, shivennen…’tis all I can translate. That it mentions the Well is a good omen.”

“Something tells me it won’t be so good after Corypheus gets his hands on it,” Dorian said.

Lavellan frowned. “We’re not going to let that happen.”

Cassandra, who had been exploring the edges of the wide courtyard, called out. “Inquisitor, the door to the rest of the temple is locked…seemingly by magic.”

“Of course,” Bull complained. “Shit, boss – first the Fade, now this crap?”

“Shush, this isn’t nearly as bad as the Fade,” Lavellan said absently, tracing over the runes thoughtfully. “Perhaps…this is a sort of puzzle. Morrigan, what do you think?”

“Supplicants to Mythal would have first paid obeisance here, yes…so following their path may be the answer.” She delicately stepped on the edge of Lavellan’s square, which immediately chimed again and turned yellow before going out entirely. “Hmm…”

“The squares can only be stepped on once,” Lavellan realized. “Huh. Let me try…”

A couple minutes later, all the squares glowed blue and the telltale chime and grind of an opening door told them all they needed to know. “It worked, Inquisitor!" Cassandra confirmed. “And…there are more dead bodies. I suggest we proceed with caution.”

“Caution?” Bull snorted. “That’s no fun.”

But when Lavellan reached the doorway, there weren’t just bodies lying beyond. No – Samson and his Red Templars fled in a burst of explosives and crumbling walls into an underground passage, and Samson’s shouted order to, “Hold them off!” left plenty of the brutes behind for Lavellan to deal with.

He gritted his teeth and fitted an arrow into Fen. Nira’s flame poured from her open jaws, bathing the courtyard in deadly gold. “Good luck with that,” he said.

*

After an admittedly grueling fight, Lavellan stood in the middle of the courtyard’s canal, soaked to the bone and panting with Nira close at his heels. “Come on,” he gasped, mustering up what remained of his strength and jogging over to the blown-up passage. “We might still catch them!”

“Wait,” Morrigan said, just before Lavellan could reach the mouth of the passage. “While they rush ahead, this leads to our true destination.” She pointed to a door off to the right which looked much like the one they’d come through. “We should walk the petitioner’s path as before.”

Bull immediately bristled. “You forget the army fighting for us out there? Longer we play around, longer Inquisition soldiers die. There’s a hole. Jump in.”

Cassandra nodded. “What if Morrigan is mistaken again, and this only leads us further astray? The risk is too great, Inquisitor. Let’s jump down and be done with this place.”

Lavellan hesitated, glancing over at the door. “I…” He swallowed, knowing they were right. And yet…Nira was padding towards the door, head tilted curiously.

“Just a thought,” Dorian cut in, “maybe rushing through this place like a mad bull – like Samson did – isn’t the best plan? You’ve seen the magic here, and I would hazard a guess that it doesn’t much like people going around and blowing it up.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “You see the urgency,” Morrigan pressed. “But we cannot simply blunder about and find the Well of Sorrows unprepared.”

Lavellan blinked. Then his gaze sharpened, ears lowering slightly. “You’re very eager to reach our destination,” he said to her.

“Are we not all eager to reach Corypheus before he completes his mad plan?” she snapped defensively. “We all want to stop him.”

“It sounds like what you want is that Well,” Lavellan retorted.

He expected Morrigan to snap again, but instead she sighed and went towards the door, where Nira was sitting, gesturing for him to follow. Hesitantly, he did. “There is…a danger to the natural order,” she murmured. “Legends walked Thedas once, gods of might and wonder. Their passing has left us all the lesser. But there are remnants of them here…perhaps even more so in the Well. Corypheus would squander the power of the Well…and I would seek to restore it.”

“You barely know what it is and you want to restore it?” Lavellan asked, bewildered. “Why?”

Morrigan bowed her head, and for a few moments he almost trusted her – she looked so genuinely heartbroken. “Mankind has hurt this world so much…destroying everything it does not understand. Elves, dragons, magic…the list is endless. But here…here is a chance to stem the tide, Inquisitor – or be left with nothing more than the mundane. “

Lavellan glanced back at Cassandra and Bull. They were quiet, but he could tell they were both impatient to follow Samson. Dorian, however, had joined Nira beside the door. Lavellan closed his eyes, and thought of the army outside. They had sworn to give their lives for him. Now, it seemed, was their chance to prove it. Oh, Creators…he hoped this worked.

“There is one last thing,” Morrigan added. “I read more in the first chamber than I revealed. It said that a great boon is given to those who use the Well of Sorrows…but at a terrible price.”

“Oh, lovely,” Dorian remarked, “what awful curse should we brace ourselves for now?”

“I don’t know that it is a curse, exactly,” Morrigan countered. “This ‘price’ is rather…vague. My priority is your cause, Inquisitor, but…if the opportunity arises to save this Well; I am willing to pay the cost.”

Lavellan looked at her steadily. “And gain what?”

“That is what we must discover,” Morrigan replied. “The rituals may point the way.”

Lavellan inclined his head. “They may.”

“Excellent choice, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan hoped she was right. He wasn’t sure if he could bear the consequences otherwise.

*

After the last of the three rituals was successfully completed (amid much complaining from Bull, enthusiastic comments from Dorian, and stoic silence from Cassandra and Nira), Lavellan retraced his steps back to the main door, pausing when they passed a looming, hooded statue made of what could have been solid gold.

Bull, momentarily forgetting his grumpiness, let out a low whistle. “That doesn’t look like a fun guy.”

Lavellan chuckled and shook his head. “No, that’s Falon’Din. The god of death. Well, technically ‘overseer of funerals and guide to the elvhen dead.’”

Morrigan stopped as well, eying the statue with interest. “Indeed. I have heard the Dalish invoke him on their deathbed, or before quests from which they expect no return.”

Lavellan shrugged. “It’s not quite so dramatic. My…” He took a deep breath. “My clan’s hunters – myself included – used to ask for his blessing when we fought bandits. Can’t say it helped much,” he muttered. Dorian went to stand at his side, and touched his hand gently. Lavellan resisted the urge to hold it, and swallowed the lump in his throat. Nira, who had been snuffling around the statue’s base, raised her head and looked at him with a tilted head. Lavellan looked away, sighing. “He was a vain god, or so the stories go. So vain, in fact, that he began wars to gain more worshippers.” Lavellan bowed his head, remembering the song – one of the oldest that the Keeper knew. “ _The blood of those who defied him/Filled lakes and oceans to the brim._ So no, Bull, he wasn’t a very fun guy at all.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan murmured. “In fact, it is said that Mythal herself rallied the gods against him, once the shadow of Falon’Din’s hunger stretched across her own people. And the arrogant god only surrendered when his brethren bloodied him in his own temple – led by the Dread Wolf, some say. What terrible irony that is, hm?”

Dorian blinked. “What kind of god is that? I wouldn’t want anyone like him to guide me to the Beyond.”

“Lucky you, then,” Lavellan said. “You’re not an elf, so he won’t. You’ll get…oh, I don’t know. Dumat or something equally evil, I expect.” He rolled his eyes.

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Still. I’m surprised they let such a monster live.”

Morrigan chuckled. “One does not lightly kill a god, even in legend.” She pointed to a statue further along the hall. “And arguably, Falon’Din was not the worst of them. Andruil, goddess of the hunt, had a set of problems all her own, as I understand it. ‘Tis said that the Dalish invoke her before a chase…especially if they happen to be stalking humans.” She raised an eyebrow at Lavellan. He rolled his eyes.

“That’s because she’s also a goddess of sacrifice,” Lavellan muttered. “Sacrifice of both animals and mortals. She…did quite a lot of killing, actually.”

Cassandra gave him an alarmed look.

“The old stories say she hunted the Forgotten Ones and everything else that dwelled in the Void, and eventually went mad because of it,” Lavellan explained. “She brought plague to all her lands and made terrible weapons of great darkness and power.”

Bull perked up. “Weapons? Like what?”

He shrugged. “They’re not very specific. Some speak of a spear, others of a bow, but most agree it was crafted from the radiance of the stars.”

Bull folded his arms, looking significantly less excited. “Star radiance can’t beat blood grooves.” Nira snorted doubtfully, and tried to sniff his jagged war axe, blood grooves and all. Bull was delighted.

“Nira, don’t impale yourself. Anyway, all of the Creators had flaws – Falon’Din with his pride and Andruil with her madness. But they’re supposed to be like that to make them more realistic, I suppose. Whereas the Maker is the epitome of perfection, right?”

“The Maker is not human,” Cassandra cut in.

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “Neither are the Creators. But at least they didn’t abandon their creations by choice, if they even exist.”

Morrigan gazed at him curiously. “Do you believe the Dread Wolf tricked the gods and locked them away in the Black City? And likewise tricked the Forgotten Ones into returning to the Void?”

“It seems like a convenient way to explain their complete and utter desertion, doesn’t it?” Lavellan replied. “But…well, honestly I hope it’s not true.”

Cassandra frowned. “Why not?”

Lavellan turned away from the statues, heading towards the door that glowed welcomingly. “Just think about it. Eight extremely powerful beings locked up in the Fade’s deepest prison for millennia, and many more such beings trapped in the Void?” He shuddered. “Imagine if they got out.”

There was a mildly horrified silence, broken by Nira’s displeased growl when Bull tried to pet her.

“I’d rather not imagine that,” Dorian conceded.

“I rest my case.”

Bull snuck in a quick pat on Nira’s horns, and then glared at the statues. “Stay put,” he told them warily. Cassandra muttered a prayer under her breath. “Boss, I’m officially done with this place. Let’s just…keep moving. Nira agrees, don’t you, pretty girl?”

Nira slowly exhaled smoke in his face. Bull coughed.

Before she could set anything important on fire, Lavellan pushed the temple door open, squinting as soft golden light washed over him. The chamber beyond was vast, with an arched ceiling covered in faded frescoes, the dully shining floor made up of interlocking mosaics. Bull let out a low whistle. Nira’s claws clicked on the tiles, her eyes darting back and forth nervously. Morrigan stared at their surroundings with open awe. “’Tis not what I expected,” she murmured. “What _was_ this chamber used for?”

Lavellan just hoped the answer wasn’t ‘blood sacrifice.’ Unfortunately, the statues of elves with bows aimed at the center of the room weren’t very promising, and neither were the towering sconces that flickered to life as they took a step forward.

Dorian’s hand fell warily upon his staff. “Hm.”

“We’re not alone,” Lavellan whispered, picking up a disturbance in the air several feet behind them – blocking the door. He turned his head slightly – sure enough, a line of hooded archers stood there, arrows trained steadily on the party. Nira whirled, wings held out on either side and head lowered defensively. But she didn’t attack, though he was certain she recognized the elves that had cornered them earlier.

“Oh,” Morrigan murmured, gazing up at the raised balcony at the head of the room. Lavellan looked – and there stood the same leader of the elves who had reduced Corypheus to dust, looking down at them imperiously.

“Venavis,” he snapped, and Lavellan flinched at the harsh command, though he stood his ground. He motioned for the rest of the party to do the same. All the while, the strange elf watched them, arms folded and dark eyes fixed on them. There was a long pause. Then, “You…are unlike the other invaders. You have the features of those who call themselves elvhen; you bear the mark of magic which is…familiar.”

The Mark, as if in reply, sputtered to life for a few moments, green tendrils curling up Lavellan’s arm. It was odd. It didn’t…it didn’t hurt here; as if this was where it was meant to be. “And…you bring a morisenatha in your midst.” Nira’s tail lashed, her neck crest puffing up proudly. But Abelas shook his head, disappointed. “No…not a true morisenatha. A mere savage animal.” Lavellan bristled, as did Nira.

“She is not simply a –”

“Silence. How has this come to pass?” the elf demanded to know. “What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

Lavellan froze. Slumber? He couldn’t…he couldn’t possibly mean…he swallowed. “They are my enemies, as well as yours,” he answered.

“Wait,” Morrigan said, “you were awoken? Who are you?”

The elf considered this. “I am Abelas,” he finally said. Lavellan blinked, the name sparking dim recognition. “We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground.” He frowned. “We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion.” He leaned over the railing slightly. “I know what you seek. Like all who have come before…you wish to drink from the vir’abelasan.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened, “The Place of the Way of Sorrows,” she hissed. “He speaks of the Well!”

Abelas glowered. “It is not _for_ you. It is not for _any_ of you.”

Dorian cut in. “You can rest easy; we didn’t come for the Well, but…you’re elves from ancient times? Before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?”

Abelas’s brow lowered. “The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan. We elvhen warred upon ourselves…and the gods left things behind. Terrible things which the People used to further the chaos. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over.”

Dorian blinked. “Wait…that’s not right! What are you saying?”

Abelas scoffed. “You would not know truth. Shemlen history is as short as the pool of your years.”

Dorian took the insult in stride, still obviously in denial. “What did the Imperium do, then? Are you saying there _wasn’t_ a war?”

“The ‘war’ of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes. We awaken only when called, and each time find the world more foreign than before.” He sighed, turning his attention upon Lavellan again. “Now, we find ourselves in an age where pitiful remnants of our time parade about with imitations of the dragons of old.”

Lavellan’s brow lowered. “You must know our people have lost everything,” he said. “They need you! They…they could learn from you.”

But Abelas lifted his head haughtily. “ _Our_ people? The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? Like you?” He glared. “You are _not_ my people. And you have invaded our sanctum as readily as the shemlen. For that…you must pay.”

The party shifted with alarm. Nira’s rumbling growl filled the air. But Lavellan didn’t reach for his weapon. Not yet.

“You wear vallaslin, too,” Lavellan said quietly. “That of Mythal. You’re meant to serve her, then, and protect her temple from those who would spoil it?” He tilted his head. “But we have not spoiled it. We walked the path of any worshipper, did we not? We knew this place was sacred, and respected it as best we could, while our enemies destroyed everything in their path.”

Abelas wavered, anger flitting across his features. “They did,” he snarled. “They brought fire and ruin to this place.”

“And they plan to take the Well for their own,” Lavellan pressed. “We will do whatever it takes to stop them. That is our only motive for being here.”

Abelas was silent for what felt like a long time. Lavellan held his breath. Then the elf inclined his head. “Very well,” he murmured. “I believe you. You have followed rites of petition, and shown respect to Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours…we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart – and never return.”

Lavellan exhaled in relief. But Morrigan nudged his shoulder. “Consider carefully, Inquisitor…you must stop Corypheus, yes, but you may also need the Well for your own.”

“They are loyal to the protection of this place,” Cassandra said. “Better to help them defend it than to slay them all.”

“I’ll admit, the idea of fighting the last of their kind…does not thrill me,” Dorian muttered.

Bull made a noncommittal sound.

Lavellan bowed his head back. “We accept your offer,” he said.

Abelas visibly relaxed. “You will be guided to those you seek.” He nodded to an elf that had seemingly slipped from the very shadows, standing off to the side with a heavy staff in hand. “As for the vir’abelasan…it shall not be despoiled. Even if I must destroy it myself.”

“No!” Morrigan cried as the elf turned, and in a flurry of movement and a flash of violet she went from woman to raven, swooping after Abelas and out of the chamber.

“Morrigan!” Lavellan called, but it was too late.

“Knew we couldn’t trust that witch,” Bull grumbled.

“Oh, I don’t know. She simply screamed honesty to me,” Dorian countered.

“We’ll worry about her later,” Lavellan said, frustrated. “I think our guide is getting impatient.”

The hunched elf was pounding his staff lightly against the floor, and though his face was hidden by shadow Lavellan would bet his expression was one of pure irritation.

The elves with the bows were retreating back into the shadows. Nira made anxious snuffling sounds and edged away from them.

The elf with the staff grunted and shuffled over to a nearby wall. It was perfectly smooth and solid until he passed a palm over it, after which it slid aside with a rasp of stone, revealing a dimly-lit hall beyond.

Nira made a piteous sound, stooping and curving her wings tightly against her body in the cramped space. Lavellan sighed and stroked her side soothingly. “Let’s just hope this is the last dark elvhen tunnel we ever have to walk through, alright?”

She sneezed, and nearly burned their guide to a crisp. The passage filled with loud, colorful cursing in elvhen, interspersed by the banging of the staff. Lavellan rubbed his eyes, and desperately prayed Morrigan hadn’t done anything stupid yet.

*

The guide left them at the stop of a dark staircase. The sounds of fighting could be heard at the end of it. Nira’s ears pricked, and her eyes brightened, happy to be in the open air again.

“Thank you,” Lavellan told the guide.

He regarded them somberly from under the dark hood. “Dareth shiral,” he finally said, before turning and shuffling back the way they’d come. The wall slid shut behind him.

“Is it just me,” Dorian remarked, “or are we completely trapped in here?”

Lavellan, trying not to think about that, raised a finger to his lips, starting down the stairs. Samson’s bellow broke through the air. “Fight on! An army of these bastards won’t stop us!”

Nira’s lips peeled back from her teeth.

“Get ready,” Lavellan warned. He nodded to Dorian. “You have the rune to destroy his armor?”

Dorian nodded, patting one of the satchels on his belt.

“How will you get to the Well, General?” one of the knights shouted.

“You won’t,” Lavellan hissed, before leaping off the steps and into the temple’s heart. He was faced with a horrific scene – two Red Templar Knights and two Horrors were finishing off the last of Abelas’s reinforcements, one of them tossed into the water like a ragdoll, her neck broken by a heavy boot; the others savagely slashed by greatswords, their blood staining the ancient stones.

“You tough bastards,” Samson praised, his back turned to Lavellan and his advancing party. “A day’s march, hours of fighting, and still fierce as dragons.”

Nira snarled in disagreement. Samson froze.

“Samson, ser – watch out!” one of the knights exclaimed, pointing – as if the angry red dragon, towering Qunari, fearsome Seeker, Tevinter mage, and platinum-haired elf weren’t obvious enough already.

Samson grimaced as he turned to face them. “Inquisitor. You and those elf-things don’t know when to stop. You’ve hunted us half across Thedas – I should’ve guessed you’d follow us into this hole.” His gaze drifted to Nira, momentary surprise flickering across his face. “And the rumors about your special little pet are true. Still, your dragon doesn’t even begin to compare to my master’s.” He sneered.

Lavellan managed to keep his voice steady. “I think you’ll find her fire burns hot enough,” he retorted. “And as for hunting you…I spoke to your Tranquil, Maddox. He sacrificed himself for your cause, you know.”

Samson’s confidence faltered. “I…I told him not to.” His gaze hardened. “He died as one of us, then. As one of the faithful. And he will be avenged, Inquisitor. Helena will make certain of that.”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed at the new name, and he glanced at Cassandra questioningly. She shrugged, equally puzzled.

But Samson quickly moved past his mourning in favor of inflating his own ego. “Corypheus chose me twice. First as his General, now as the Vessel for the Well of Sorrows. You know what’s inside the Well? Wisdom. The kind of wisdom with the power to scour the world. I give it to Corypheus, and he can walk the Fade without your precious Anchor.” He faced the hill in the center of the courtyard, which was surrounded by crumbling walls concealing whatever lay there from view. But Lavellan knew it had to be the mysterious Well.

He decided to keep Samson talking – best to learn as much as possible before fighting him. “What’s your part in this, exactly? What’s a Vessel?”

“What else empties a Well?” Samson mused. “I’ll carry its power to Corypheus…one more precious task entrusted to me.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “And they call me conceited.”

Samson stared up at the Well covetously, completely ignoring them. “Being force-fed Chantry lyrium was good for something. This armor makes me a living fortress – mind and body.” He clenched his fist. “I won’t forget a word of the Well’s knowledge, and with it – with me – Corypheus will be unstoppable.”

Lavellan shook his head. “Once Corypheus is that powerful, you and your soldiers will just slow him down. He’ll cast you aside.”

Samson turned, furious. “You dare say that to my face? After you butchered my men?”

“They’re not men anymore,” Bull muttered.

Samson’s face purpled. “You’re no match for Corypheus. Even if you drink from the Well, you’ll never master its wisdom as he could!” Samson stepped forward, the red lyrium spikes protruding from his chest and arms beginning to glow vibrantly. Red veins of light ignited under the metal. “ _This_ is the strength the Chantry tried to bind. But it’s a new world now. With a new god.” He stretched an arm out, mockingly welcoming. “So, Inquisitor? How will this go?”

“Power’s all well and good,” Lavellan shot back, “until it’s taken away.” Samson’s eyes narrowed. “Dorian, now!”

Dorian lifted the rune up, using his magic to direct its energy at Samson. Golden sparks raced from it, colliding with the lyrium and breaking it instantly. It crumbled and cracked into a hundred glittering, deadly pieces. Samson cried out, falling to his knees, shaking.

“What did you do?” he whispered. Louder, furious, “ _What did you do?!_ ” He climbed to his feet slowly, chest heaving. “My armor…it’s gone…gone…the lyrium…I need it,” he panted, voice desperate, expression contorted with rage. Lavellan silently thanked whoever was listening that he’d never had to see Cullen like this. Samson was reduced to little more than a husk of a man, craving something which brought only pain and power at the worst cost.

_“Kill them all!” Samson ordered._

Nira roared, flames melting armor and lyrium alike. The rest of the party took that as their signal and sprang into action, Bull with heavy melee strikes and Cassandra with sharp defensive maneuvers. Dorian retreated to the stairs to cast a walking bomb over the nastiest Knight, as well as several barriers over the party.

Lavellan, meanwhile, dodged Samson’s whirling sword and shifted into stealth, Fen held tightly in his hands, moving along the outskirts of the battle and throwing knives in all the right places, firing arrows in the weak spots made by the knives. Nira was taking on the Horror all by herself, and its fire didn’t stand a chance against hers. Still, it landed a blow on her wing which made Lavellan wince – the flesh sizzled and bled and Nira screeched in agony, the whip of her tail sending the Horror flying against the rocks so hard its lyrium growths cracked.

Abelas kept his word – two Sentinel Champions descended the stairs together, and threw themselves into the fray with their mighty mauls, taking Samson and his Templars by surprise. Lavellan scrambled up onto a convenient ledge and let the stealth fade, aiming and firing at the last Knight standing. The third arrow did the trick, lodging firmly into his left eye, and when he died it was in a purple explosion of mana and guts that sent the other Templars stumbling, damaged from the impact. Dorian winked at him from across the courtyard while unleashing five spirits of terror that eagerly battered the remaining Knight and Horror.

Samson himself, however, was still going strong, pushing Cassandra back bit by bit. Lavellan grimaced at the sound of his sword clanging against her shield, and wondered how strong he would’ve been with the armor. On second thought, he didn’t really want to wonder about that. Just when Lavellan was sure Samson would break through Cassandra’s defenses, he was bathed in dragon fire, and Cassandra immediately switched to offense with expert skill and grim determination as Samson writhed and slashed blindly at her.

Yes, she was definitely his favorite party member. She and Nira made a great team, actually.

Leaving the very adept ladies to chip away at Samson’s guard, he covered himself in stealth again, unsheathed his dagger, and leapt from the ledge. Seeing the sweat on the Qunari’s brow and the fallen Sentinel alongside him, Lavellan snuck behind the Horror attacking Bull and plunged the blade between the chinks in its armor, twisting it in a gush of blood. The Horror howled, back arching, and Bull brought it down with a final mighty blow.

“Thanks, boss,” he said gratefully when he saw Lavellan standing there, splattered with Templar blood.

Lavellan smiled and only had Bull’s wide eyes as a warning before a knife plunged into his own back, jutting out of his stomach briefly before it was yanked out with a wet _squelch_.

“Fuck,” he said weakly, staring at the spreading red stain.

Across the courtyard, Dorian shouted and as Lavellan’s legs gave out under him, the mage’s violent inferno spell hit the Red Templar Shadow square in the chest. The assassin was quickly dispatched by Bull’s hammer and five bursts of spirit magic in quick succession.

Lavellan coughed, clutching his midsection and focusing hard on his breathing, in and out, in and out, his heart pounding and blood trickling out between his fingers. When the Shadow had fallen, Bull rushed to him, steadying him and helping him upright. “Shit, boss, you need to be more careful.”

Lavellan closed his eyes and hissed in pain as he forced himself to take a step forward. “What, it’s not like I get stabbed on a daily basis.”

Bull snorted, glancing over at Dorian, who was hurrying towards them. “Pretty sure you do, boss.”

“Not the time for innuendos,” Lavellan grumbled halfheartedly. “Let go of me, go help Cassandra and Nira with Samson. I’m…fine.” He swayed and shoved Bull away, but before he could fall again Dorian was there, easing him down to the ground. “You too,” he wheezed. “They need help.”

Dorian didn’t. Instead, he glared at Lavellan, his voice tight and strained and angry when he spoke. “What is _wrong_ with you,” he snapped, gripping Lavellan’s shoulders so hard they would surely bruise. “ _You_ need help. Vishante kaffas, do you have no sense of self-preservation?”

“Go. Help. Them,” Lavellan gritted out. “I’m perfectly _fine_.”

Dorian cursed and tugged his prone body roughly into his lap. Lavellan let out a thine whine of pain, sucking in a breath when Dorian ripped his leather vest open, sliding his shirt up to reveal the gaping wound. The stormclouds on his face increased tenfold.

Fenedhis, he was _angry_ , angrier than Lavellan had ever seen him – his hands shook when he placed them on Lavellan’s torn skin, and the tendons stood out in his neck as healing magic flowed from his fingertips. It was soft and soothing, in stark contrast to the fury blazing in his eyes. Lavellan looked up at him timidly, curled in on himself, but Dorian wouldn’t meet his gaze. His hands pressed too hard against the half-healed gash and a bitten-off whimper slipped from Lavellan’s lips.

Dorian did look at him then, some of the fury fading, replaced by concern that was just as intense. “Sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking, and Lavellan tried to read his face, tried to figure out why he was so upset, why he held Lavellan like he was going to shatter at any moment, why his eyes seemed shinier than usual.

But Dorian Pavus was exceptionally good at hiding his emotions, and after just a few more seconds he pulled away stiffly, wiping his bloodied palms off on the grass and offering Lavellan a hand. Lavellan blinked at the new scar dumbly before tugging his shirt back down and taking Dorian’s hand, stumbling to his feet just in time to see Samson fall.

Bull stood over him, weapon raised and ready to deliver the killing blow, but Lavellan held a hand out. “Wait, we need him alive,” he ordered. Bull sighed, disappointed, but hefted his hammer onto his back. Cassandra sheathed her sword, and Nira backed down, tail lashing and injured wing still smoking slightly.

Samson groaned and stirred slightly, covered in burns and cuts. He managed to raised his head slightly, glaring at Lavellan. “Not the Well, you wretch...you can’t take it from Corypheus. You mustn’t.”

“He’s still breathing,” Cassandra murmured, grudgingly impressed.

Lavellan hoped the dizziness he felt was from exhaustion rather than blood loss. “We can take him back to Skyhold for judgment,” he said, interrupted as a familiar hooded elf rushed into the courtyard, chasing Morrigan’s raven who flew up to the Well, creating a staircase of stones as she went. “Abelas!”

“Do not even _think_ about running in this state,” Dorian started, but Lavellan was already breaking into a sprint up the steps. Nira took flight clumsily, landing at the top where Morrigan had shifted back, standing stubbornly between the Well and Abelas. Lavellan reached them soon after, along with the rest of the party.

Abelas folded his arms. “Is this how you repay all your allies?” he asked.

Morrigan jumped in quickly. “You heard his parting words, Inquisitor. The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows!”

Lavellan expected Abelas to turn on them, but instead he backed away reluctantly, arms falling to his sides. “So the sanctum is despoiled at last.”

“You would have destroyed the Well yourself, given the chance!” Morrigan accused.

Abelas’s lip curled. “To keep it from your grasping fingers! Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving.”

“Fool! You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows?”

Lavellan gave her a look. “Enough, Morrigan.”

She threw up her hands. “You cannot honestly –”

“I said enough!” Lavellan snapped.

Morrigan paused, and took a deep breath. “The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor. If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

Abelas shook his head. “Do you even know what you ask?” he murmured. He bowed his head, gazing at the clear pool of water that was the Well, a dark eluvian on the opposite side. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on…through this.” He turned back to Lavellan. “All that we were, all that we knew…it would be lost forever.”

Lavellan saw pain in the elf’s face, and the sorrow for which he was named. “It can’t be easy, holding on to what’s left.”

“You cannot imagine,” Abelas replied fiercely. “Each time we awaken, it slips further from our grasp.” But then his expression softened, and his eyes grew thoughtful. “You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny. Is that your desire? To partake of the vir’abelasan as best as you can, to fight your enemy?”

Lavellan hesitated. “Not without your permission.”

Abelas turned. “One does not obtain permission. One obtains the right.” He looked away. “But the vir’abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know this: you shall be forever bound to the will of Mythal.”

Lavellan didn’t like the sound of that, but Morrigan just scoffed. “Bound? To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?”

“Bound, as we are bound.” Abelas touched his vallaslin and his eyes narrowed. “The choice is yours.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “Is…is it possible Mythal might still exist?”

“Anything is possible,” Abelas said evasively.

Morrigan folded her arms. “Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen’Harel and banished to the Beyond.”

“Elven legend is wrong,” Abelas countered. “The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened. “Murder? I said nothing of –”

“She was slain, if a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple.” Abelas inclined his head. “Yet the vir’abelasan remains, as do we. That is something.”

“Where will you go?” Lavellan asked quietly. “Will you leave, or stay?”

“Our duty is done. Why remain?” Abelas sighed. “Perhaps there is a place the shemlen have not yet touched. Or, it may be that only Uthenera awaits us. The blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken.” He smiled slightly. “If Fate is kind.”

“You could come with us,” Lavellan offered. “Fight Corypheus. He killed your people.”

But Abelas refused. “No. We killed ourselves, long ago.”

Dorian spoke up. “The Imperium went to great lengths to expunge Elvhen history. You might be the last to know the truth.”

Abelas looked at him warily. “Would the ‘elves’ of your lands listen to the truth?”

“They might,” Dorian replied. “Would it hurt to try?”

“It very well may, shemlen, yes.” Abelas turned away, defeated, giving a last glance to Lavellan. “Dareth shiral, isenathe'dirlan.” And then he slowly descended the steps, leaving his temple forever.

“What did he call you?” Cassandra questioned.

“Friend of dragons,” Lavellan murmured. Nira was watching the elf leave, silent and solemn as if she understood it all perfectly.

Morrigan drew his attention back to the Well. “You’ll note the intact eluvian. I was correct on that count, at least.”

“Is it still a threat? Can Corypheus use it to travel to the Fade?”

Morrigan looked at the still water. “You recall when I took you through my eluvian, I said each required a key? The Well _is_ the key. Take its power, and Mythal’s last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass.” Her gaze was unfocused. “I did not expect the Well to feel so…hungry.”

Lavellan frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”

But Morrigan just said, “Knowledge begets a hunger for more.” She looked at him. “I am willing to pay the price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“Use it for your own ends, you mean,” Bull cut in sharply. Nira growled.

“What would you know of my ‘ends,’ Qunari?” she snapped. “Listen. Of those present, I alone have the training to make use of this. Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s brow lowered at that. “’You alone’? This is _my_ heritage!”

“I have studied the oldest lore! I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream! Can you honestly tell me there is no one better suited?”

Lavellan faltered. “I…what about you, Dorian?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “A human from Tevinter scoops up the last bits of Elvhen knowledge? I know it’s important, but…I can’t be that man.”

Lavellan knew he was right. So he blurted, “I could be.”

Morrigan looked at him with shock. “You lead the Inquisition! This is not a risk you can take. Give me this…and I fight at your side. I shall be your sword – this I swear.”

Lavellan glanced at the others desperately.

Cassandra sighed. “If it is truly between you and her…let her take the risk, Inquisitor. Maker help us all.”

Bull shrugged. “You know I don’t trust the witch, boss. But it’s your decision.”

Dorian set his jaw. “You’ve already nearly died once today. Don’t you dare do it again.” He cleared his throat. “I can’t risk losing –”

“Enough deliberation!” Morrigan interrupted. “Give me your decision.”

Lavellan looked at Dorian, and tried to memorize the curves of his face, the color of his eyes, the cadence of his voice. He turned back to her. “If anyone is to use the Well…it should be me.”

He did not have to look to see the dismay in Dorian’s face.

She glowered. “So you will take what little knowledge you can understand, and let the rest go to waste?”

But Lavellan had made up his mind. “And who’s to say it’ll go to waste?”

“I do!” Morrigan said fiercely.

There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps it is better this way,” she conceded. “Do as you will with the Well of Sorrows. But be careful, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan nodded at her. Nira shifted anxiously, and he felt everyone’s eyes on him as he stepped forward, wading into the pool and sending ripples outwards. The water responded immediately at his touch, glowing a faint blue and almost…humming, swirling eagerly around him. Strangely, he did not feel its dampness, just a cool sensation brushing over his bare skin, oddly calming.

Slowly, he cupped his hands and filled them with the entrancing water, hesitating a moment before resolutely lifting them to his lips.

He just barely registered that it tasted sweet, and then white-hot agony spiked through his skull, making him cry out and tumble backwards, the resultant wave of water pulling him under, his head connecting with the tiles and sending him into a sea of swimming darkness.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing again, in the center of the dry well with dark mist shifting all around. Voices whispered, and he couldn’t tell if they were in his head or not.

“Garas quenathra?” one asked, louder than all the others. _Why have you come?_

Lavellan swallowed, trying to seek out the voice’s owner in the gloom yet not entirely sure he wanted to. “Corypheus…a magister wishes to rip the Veil open. I must learn how to stop him.”

The whispers faded, soft and unintelligible.

Lavellan whirled, frantic. “If you can help me, take whatever price you wish! Anything!”

The whispers stopped. Then sharpened, until there was only one. “Vir Mythal’enaste,” they said, and then the mist condensed into blinding light, rushing towards him, filling his vision until all he could see was a…a _brand_ , a golden sigil of ancient meaning and purpose that settled on his skin, into his very mind, binding him forever.

Lavellan gasped, a million words and whispers falling into place in his memories, and mist rushed in, choking him, smothering him, encouraging the shadows to settle over him again. His head spun wildly and his drained body gave out, hitting the tiled basin hard.

Sensations came back to him slowly. He felt like he was floating, but he could hear the cacophony of voices above him – real voices, not the ones in his head. Then he was distantly aware of a soft hand on his cheek, tilting his face up.

“Festis bei umo canavarum. If you don’t come through this, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Lavellan forced his eyes open, almost crying out at the brightness of the light and the aching of his head. Dorian, Cassandra, and Bull were leaning over him, with Nira overshadowing them all.

“Not dead,” Dorian proclaimed. “Well, that’s a relief! So…good? Bad? I’m dying to know.”

Lavellan didn’t miss the bite in his words. He fended them off with a raised hand wearily, clutching his head. Morrigan watched but said nothing. Nira nuzzled his side with concern…then startled back as he took a step forward, the blue mist from before following his path like an obedient spirit.

“More glowing things,” Bull grunted. “Great.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, panicked, “he’s here.”

They all turned to look. Corypheus strode out onto the balcony at the top of the stairs, freezing when he saw the scene before him – the empty Well, with Lavellan standing in it. His features twisted even further in rage, and he leapt from the balcony with a cry, headed straight for them.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan cried, just as Lavellan was enveloped in the blue light. He spun and touched the eluvian’s dark surface, which flared to life under his fingertips. Morrigan wasted no time, and ran through first.

“Quickly!” he urged, Cassandra and Bull running past him and through. Dorian wavered, and Lavellan made a supremely frustrated sound and all but shoved him in.  
Nira pawed at the ground urgently, her wounded wing the only thing preventing her from fleeing. She wanted to stay to protect him, Lavellan realized, even though she must have known she didn’t stand a chance against the darkspawn magister.

“Go,” he told her, nudging her towards the mirror. “Now!” Still she hesitated.

Lavellan cursed, and did the only thing he could think of, hitting her flank as hard as he could. She yelped and startled forward, frightened, bounding through the eluvian after the others. Lavellan cast a look back – Corypheus was nearly upon them. Then the Well began to glow again, with a new light that took the shape of a woman, hovering in the water that rushed back into the basin and surrounded her.

She bowed her head, the water forming a fresh wave, threatening to drown everything in its path. Lavellan turned and ran, the wave slamming the eluvian shut forever behind him. Corypheus’s screams echoed in his ears as he dashed through the graveyard of the Crossroads, tangled whispers reverberating everywhere, nearly deafening. So focused on escaping was he that Lavellan did not notice the dark silhouette that watched him from behind a cracked eluvian, its face a smooth sphere of nothingness.

Lavellan was the last to leap out of the eluvian at Skyhold, staggering amidst the relieved others and a still-panicked Nira. Morrigan closed it behind him. “It is done,” she murmured. She nodded at Lavellan, and then left without another word. Cassandra murmured a small blessing of some sort, Bull patted him on the back, and then they too departed.

In their absence, the room felt too small; stifling. Uncomfortable. Tense. Lavellan wasn’t quite sure why, but he thought it might have something to do with the thin, straight line of Dorian’s mouth and the careful foot of space the mage left between them.

Dorian eyed him warily. “How do you feel?” he finally asked.

Lavellan closed his eyes. “Tired,” he admitted.

“Get some sleep, then.” When he opened his eyes again, Dorian was walking away from him. Lavellan stared dazedly at his back, hurt and confused.

Nira, meanwhile, was cowering in the corner, and when Lavellan moved towards her, her eyes went flat and dark like a cornered animal’s, her ears flattening back against her skull. The smell of burnt flesh was still evident, and when her wing lifted he saw it looked even worse than before. He stretched out a hand and she shuffled backwards, nostrils flaring and tail curled tightly around her legs.

His heart sank. “Nira,” he whispered, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, alright?”

She let out a high, harsh whine, lowering her head and staring at him. When he touched her neck she flinched back fearfully, as if she didn’t understand that she was more than capable of tearing him limb to limb if she wanted to.

A sudden wave of fatigue came over him and Lavellan steadied himself against her to avoid fainting, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to dispel the lump in his throat. Perhaps then she realized just how fragile he was, making a small, sad sound and nestling her head upon his shoulder, curling her tail around them both – a fragile shield for two fragile creatures.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed. The voices whispered in his ears and he shivered unhappily.

Nira rumbled sympathetically and shifted under him, hissing when she tried to extend her injured wing.

Lavellan sat up. _Get ahold of yourself_ , the only voice that was his own told him. “Right, then,” he declared. “Let’s get you fixed up, shall we? How does that sound?”

Nira chirped cheerfully and butted his chest with her head. His stomach twinged, but he gritted his teeth and smiled through the pain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, the chapterly doodles are back! secondly, you should check out the song Long Way Down by Robert DeLong bc it's basically the theme song of this story??
> 
> and sorry in advance :) enjoy (and thanks for your comments and kudos. can we make it to 200 kudos? CAN WE DO IT?!)

After leaving Nira to get patched up by Adan and Frederic, Lavellan went up to the mage tower to make sure a raven was sent to the Wilds, to inform Cullen of what had happened in the temple. Lavellan doubted Samson was still where they’d left him, but included that in his message just in case. He handed the scroll over to one of Leliana’s few scouts remaining at Skyhold, an elven woman named Fiona.

She skimmed it quickly before rolling it up and tying it carefully to the bird’s leg. “Glad I missed that mission,” Fiona muttered. “With respect, Inquisitor, I don’t want nothin’ to do with those ruins in the woods.”

“You aren’t even a little bit curious?” Lavellan asked as she tapped the bird’s head thrice before flicking her wrist and sending it on its way out the window.

“Nah. But I’m glad you made it out. Everyone knew you would.” She smiled at him. “Those soldiers fightin’ for the Inquisition…they wouldn’t be there if they didn’t believe in you, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan looked down, feeling unimaginably guilty. He wasn’t worthy of whatever opinion they had of him.

“Anyway, message should reach ‘em in a few hours, a day tops. That’s our fastest bird. Named Lightning.” Fiona looked proud. “Trained her myself. She never gets lost.”

Lavellan tilted his head. “How do they know where to go?”

“Oh, we have a system in place. Some of ‘em are trained by ear to know where to go, with others we use a system of taps to –”

“No, no…I mean, how do they know which way to fly? Why don’t they always get lost?”

Fiona paused. “Huh. Well, sometimes I think they follow scents. Or the sun, maybe. Or the stars. Or maybe they’re just magic.” She chuckled. “Could be their instincts, too…that’s how they always come home. It’s in their nature to return to where they originated. Don’t ask me how.” She shrugged. “Funny creatures, birds.”

“I suppose,” Lavellan murmured, watching the small black speck of the raven fly towards the twilit horizon, until the dying sun swallowed it up.

*

On his way back downstairs, he had hoped to find Dorian in the library and maybe steal a kiss, but when he did Dorian hardly even looked at him and instead continued shuffling through the shelves, until Lavellan cleared his throat and said, “Are you alright? Not about to start throwing books again, are you?”

Dorian’s hand paused on the spine of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. When he looked at Lavellan, his mouth was still set in that thin, straight line, and his eyes were uncharacteristically dull and distant. His voice had none of its usual ardor, either. “What happened at the temple…it’s got me thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime,” Lavellan chuckled. Dorian didn’t laugh.

“I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. Once this is all done…if we’re still alive.” Dorian turned away, shaking his head. “All my talk of how terribly wrong things are back home, but what do I do about it? Nothing.”

Lavellan stared at him, still struggling to process his words. “I…how does this relate to the temple at all?”

Dorian still didn’t look at him. “That elf, Abelas. He said the Imperium wasn’t what destroyed the elves. My people would never accept that. It would reduce us to scavengers; destroy our legacy no matter how terrible.” He closed his eyes. “But we _should_ accept it, take our history down a peg, confront the legacy hanging over us like a shroud. Maybe not all of us want to, but that could be altered. If you can change minds, so can I.”

“Can I change your mind about this?” Lavellan whispered. “I mean, you…you would just leave? What about…” He left the question hanging in the air over them. He didn’t know what to call it. And the look Dorian was giving him – half amused and half deeply, deeply sad was not helping. “I could go with you,” Lavellan offered desperately.

Dorian sighed. “I think you and I both know Minrathous is not a good place for an elven leader of a hated Southern organization, Lavellan. Besides, you’d just end up doing everything yourself, and we can’t have that.”

Lavellan knew he should say it. He should tell Dorian that whatever this thing between them started out as, it’s gotten out of control, and Dorian can’t leave or…or…  
Dorian must have seen the turmoil on his face because he stepped forward, and the touch of his hand against Lavellan’s cheek was like a rush of cold water. Lavellan blinked, swallowing and staring up at him, searching his eyes for a _hint_ , something, _anything_ to tell him that the feeling was mutual between them.

But Dorian’s tone was as light and empty as his eyes, as if talking to a child, not full of the emotion that Lavellan’s chest was practically bursting with. “As much as I would love to watch my homeland beaten into submission, this is something I need to do. I hope you can understand.”

Lavellan took a shaky breath. “Would you…would you return? After?”

“After?” Dorian laughed shortly. “Fixing the Imperium, I expect, will take quite a while. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be leaving you all alone in this drafty old castle! I’m certain Sera would be just as eager as usual to make cookies with you, Varric could probably use your advice on his latest book, Cassandra practically worships you, Vivienne would be all too happy to take you shopping, and Bull is always there if you need a drink or seven. And you have Nira, of course. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”

Lavellan’s face crumpled, but he managed to bury his head in Dorian’s chest before the mage saw. Dorian made a surprised little sound, his hands fluttering uncertainly over Lavellan’s back. “Ah…Inquisitor? What are you…I’m honestly not certain as to whether you’re hugging or strangling me.”

“Both,” Lavellan mumbled, voice muffled by soft leather. He squeezed his eyes shut, composing himself, and looked up. “I’ll miss you.” The words sounded hollow, because they didn’t even begin to properly convey what he would feel when Dorian was gone. He wasn’t even sure what he felt now, but he guessed it was more than whatever Dorian did.

Dorian smiled slightly. “I’ll write you, of course. Keep you up to date on all the latest scandals.”

“Perhaps you should include a copy for Vivienne, as well.”

Dorian’s smile grew sharp, his eyes glinting. “I doubt Vivienne would want to see the content of my letters to you. In fact, I think you should keep them _very_ private, Inquisitor, lest you create a scandal yourself.”

Lavellan forced a smile back. This playful flirting; this was easy. It was the rest of it he wasn’t so sure about. “Oh? I’ve heard rumors you’re quite an artist, Lord Pavus. Perhaps you should send me some samples of your work.”

Dorian was backing him up against the bookshelf slowly, and Lavellan let him, hoping he couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart or see through the desire in his eyes. “Perhaps,” Dorian murmured, stroking his thumb down along Lavellan’s cheekbone and over his lips. “I’d have to memorize your appearance before I left, though…every last part of you.” His hands slid around Lavellan’s hips.

“That can be arranged,” Lavellan said, tilting his head up and kissing him soundly. When he started to move closer, however, Dorian stepped back, shaking his head. Lavellan furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Not now,” Dorian chided. “I’m very busy. I’ve been scouring the library for hours to find a particular tome that seems to have been misplaced…and it’s quite important, I’m afraid.”

Lavellan made a frustrated sound and leaned against the shelves. “It _better_ be important…tonight, then? My quarters?”

But Dorian shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan blinked. “Why not?”

Dorian shrugged, turning away to sift through his books again. “I’m quite drained from the Wilds, and I’m surprised you haven’t collapsed of exhaustion already. On second thought, you probably should collapse in your bed as soon as possible. Especially after you almost died and all of that.”

Lavellan was persistent, though. “You could collapse with me?” he offered.

Dorian chuckled. “Off with you, Inquisitor. If you’d like someone to snuggle with, I’m certain your dragon would oblige. Now, do I have to make you another sleeping draught, or not?”

Lavellan rolled his eyes and reluctantly stepped away from him. “Fine, _Mother_.”

He told himself Dorian’s refusal meant nothing.

*  


But although that was the first refusal, it was not to be the last.

In the days leading up to the army’s return, Skyhold was rather quiet. But somehow, Dorian always found some form of study to occupy himself with instead of Lavellan’s tempting suggestions (or he _thought_ they were tempting; maybe they weren’t? Maybe _he_ wasn’t?). Lavellan had never considered himself vain, certainly not like Dorian was, but on more than one occasion he found himself staring worriedly at his reflection as if searching for some disturbing deformity to explain Dorian’s sudden aversion towards him.

But the only thing he ever came up with was the new scar on his stomach, the scar Dorian himself had made, a raised, white diagonal line just above his left hip. It didn’t _look_ particularly terrible, but then again…Dorian’s skin was flawless. Lavellan couldn’t remember ever seeing a single blemish on it, save for the occasional beauty mark – which hardly counted as a flaw. Whereas he was covered in dusty freckles and had a scar on his _face_. Lavellan bit his lip, making the mark there stand out more than usual.

He didn’t think he was _ugly_. But he wasn’t a paragon by any standards, either. Then again, he wasn’t nearly as scrawny and small as he’d once been. And if Dorian found him so unsatisfactory, then why only start making it known now?

Dorian was just busy, then, as he said. Why else would he be rejecting any advances Lavellan tried to make and disappear every night with the excuse of research?

The other answer was not one that Lavellan liked at all. But he trusted Dorian. It was nothing.

*

It took a week for the Inquisition’s army to come home, but when they did it was amidst great celebration. Lavellan had feared what state they might be in – he’d pictured gruesomely injured regiments, crippled horses, cartfulls of corpses – but he needn’t have worried, apparently. The soldiers seemed to be in surprisingly high spirits, and when Lavellan cautiously went out to greet them from the stairs, he was greeted with a deafening cheer. It gave him a much needed boost of self-esteem, and he was unusually cheerful during the war table meeting that followed.

Cullen looked a bit worn, but was thankfully unhurt save for a lack of sleep. “I’m pleased to report we won the battle, Inquisitor,” he announced. Josephine gave a little clap, and Leliana let a rare smile slip. Morrigan’s eyebrow twitched. “When you went through that mirror, Corypheus and his Archdemon fled the field. I’m not sure why.”

“What he wanted was no longer there,” Morrigan supplied.

Cullen inclined his head. “Perhaps. He spent so long trying to get into the temple, he probably couldn’t have helped his forces by that point. He didn’t even come back for Samson – we managed to capture him easily. He awaits judgment in the dungeons as we speak.”

Josephine took the optimistic viewpoint, as usual. “Then…Corypheus is finished.”

Leliana quickly cut in. “If he is wise, he will hide and rebuild his strength before he attacks again, and –”

_He will not hide_. Lavellan startled at the whispering voices, gripping the edge of the war table hard. “He won’t hide,” he interrupted. His advisors eyed him with concern, but Morrigan’s lips parted, understanding.

“You hear it,” she murmured. “The Well speaks to you.”

“It’s trying,” Lavellan said uncertainly. “Mostly it’s just distant whispers…strange words…”

Her expression quickly soured. “If only one who understood such voices had used the Well’s power instead.”

Leliana jumped to his defense. “Then we’d have to rely on _her_ interpretation and whatever she chose to tell us. The Inquisitor’s report did not exactly describe you as forthright at the temple, Lady Morrigan.”

Morrigan glowered at them both. “I told you what the Well _could_ have done, Inquisitor. You should be hearing shouts from the heavens, not unintelligible whispers!”

“As if I would’ve let some know-it-all shem drink the history of my People,” Lavellan muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Morrigan snapped. Leliana smirked at him. “Fine, gossip behind my back all you’d like, but that does not change the fact that we’re not any closer to finding a way to defeat Corypheus!”

As if on cue, a thunderous host of voices filled Lavellan’s head, clamoring over one another and making him grit his teeth, ears twitching anxiously. Then one chimed loudly over the rest, and his eyes widened at what it said to him. “The dragon’s not an Archdemon,” he exclaimed, looking at them all with excitement. “It’s a normal dragon, although tainted by red lyrium…and Corypheus has invested part of his power in it.” He folded his arms. “Kill it, and his ability to jump to other bodies is disrupted for a time. He _can_ be killed.”

Leliana cleared her throat. “Inquisitor…that’s no simple task. I’m well aware you’ve slain your share of dragons, but…Corypheus alone is powerful enough, and with his dragon…”

_Go to the altar. Mythal will come._

“I need to summon Mythal,” Lavellan blurted.

Cullen looked deeply worried. Josephine opened her mouth, then closed it. Leliana shifted uncomfortably.

Morrigan scoffed. “Whatever Mythal was, goddess or myth…I doubt that she –”

But the voices were not done. Lavellan stabbed the map urgently with his finger. “There. In the Wilds, there’s an altar. That’s where I need to go.”

Morrigan paused, then relented. “I see you are determined…so be it.” With that, she turned on her heel and promptly strode out, the door slamming shut behind her.

Josephine clasped her hands. “Are you…certain of this?”

Lavellan wasn’t. But he said, “We don’t have much of a choice, do we? If Corypheus comes here now…”

There was an uneasy silence.

Cullen bowed his head. “Very well, Inquisitor. I’ll see to Skyhold’s defenses in the meantime.”

Leliana rolled her eyes. “I know this is all very urgent business, but I believe we all deserve a respite now. We’ve weakened Corypheus for the time being, and unless he is a complete fool – which unfortunately, I doubt – he will not attack any time soon.”

Cullen frowned. “But we must be prepared –”

“Oh, do loosen up, Commander,” Leliana scolded. “I daresay you need some rest, and Josie, you’re looking awfully morose. It’s not good for your complexion at all.”

Josephine looked appalled. “Am I really? Oh, dear! And Cullen, you don’t look well either. Have you gotten a wink of sleep since we left the Wilds?”

Lavellan guessed he hadn’t, judging by the huge dark circles under his eyes. He hoped it wasn’t the lyrium-fueled nightmares again. He briefly imagined consulting Cullen about his own dreams. _So, Commander…amidst all your night terrors, do you ever seen an elf with no face taking the form of your deceased sister and telling you you’re going to die soon? No?_ Hm. Probably not a very good idea.

Cullen looked unsure. “Well…maybe a day or two of rest wouldn’t hurt…the soldiers would be glad for it, anyway.”

“A party it is, then!” Leliana declared.

“What?!” Lavellan, Josephine and Cullen said in unison.

“Oh, yes,” Leliana replied. “A party for…morale. Tomorrow night.”

“But…but the preparations!” Josephine practically wailed. “I must order all the drinks, and find proper tablecloths, and the cooks need proper food for a proper feast and –”

“Oh, add some spontaneity to your life, Josie!”

Leliana may as well have suggested she drink darkspawn blood, so horrified was Josephine’s expression.

To avoid seeing his poor Ambassador faint on the spot, Lavellan hastily explained, “It wouldn’t have to be elaborate, right? We could just open some of the casks from the cellars and roast a few pigs or something. Oh, and Sera was saying the cooks just got a new shipment of apples and blackberries from Orlais! They could make pies!”

“I do like pie,” Cullen mumbled, slightly pink. “And…it might be nice to try some of that ancient Antivan rum…”

Leliana gazed imploringly at Josephine. “I will take care of _all_ the arrangements, Josie. All you have to do is relax and look pretty. Cross my heart.”

Josephine hesitated. “I’d hate to do nothing at all to help…”

“You could make pies with me and Sera,” Lavellan proposed. “Very important work.”

Josephine at last gave in. “Ooh, that _does_ sound exciting,” she admitted. She blushed. “Can I make cookies, too?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s a yes?” Leliana asked gleefully. “Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” Lavellan agreed easily.

She grinned. “You will not regret it.”

*

Lavellan tried again, halfheartedly, to seduce Dorian that night. But to his surprise, he couldn’t find the mage anywhere in the library. When he asked Minaeve, she shrugged. “Thought he went to the tavern earlier…maybe he hasn’t gotten back yet?”

Worried, Lavellan turned back to go downstairs again…only to see Dorian coming up them, a bottle in his hand, swaying slightly. His hair was suspiciously tousled more than usual, and his cheeks were red.

_It was nothing._

“Where have you been?” Lavellan asked him casually, moving to help him before he fell over. But Dorian just waved him off.

“Where does it look like I’ve been?” he retorted.

Lavellan did not want to answer that question. “Minaeve said you went to the tavern.” He wrinkled his nose when Dorian stepped closer. “How much have you had to drink? You reek.”

Dorian stared at him from hazy eyes. “Enough,” he mumbled. “C’mere.” Without warning, he tugged the front of Lavellan’s shirt, bringing their mouths together in a messy, one-sided kiss. Lavellan squirmed, shocked and more than a little put off by the overwhelming taste of whiskey. He struggled, managing to pull back and away from the kiss, though Dorian still had an arm looped around his waist.

“What’re you…” Then a terrible thought occurred to Lavellan. What if Dorian really was so disgusted by him now that he could only do anything with him when he was completely drunk? Mortified, Lavellan wriggled out of his grasp, shaking his head. “Stop it,” he snapped.

Dorian blinked slowly. “Inquisitor?” he said in a small voice.

Lavellan backed away. “Go take a bath and come back when you’re sober,” he muttered. “If I wanted to make out with a tankard, I’d go to the tavern myself.”

Dorian looked down at the nearly-empty bottle in his hands.

As Lavellan descended the stairs, he thought he heard the sound of glass breaking.

*

On his way to visit Nira in the makeshift dragon infirmary, Lavellan nearly ran into Cullen on the ramparts. The Commander was flushed, hair and clothes rumpled noticeably, and Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “My, my, Commander – the party is tomorrow, but it looks like _someone_ is already having fun.”

“I…I…” Cullen stammered, turning an even darker shade of pink. His eyes looked brighter, though, and there was a spring in his step that had been missing before.

“Don’t worry,” Lavellan laughed. “Leliana’s right. Loosen up, you deserve it. So, who’s the lucky lady?”

Cullen’s eyes widened and he started stuttering again. “I really shouldn’t – I don’t –”

“Cullen.” Lavellan touched his shoulder, smiling. “It’s alright. I’m happy for you.”

Cullen relaxed slightly. “You…really? Thank you, Inquisitor. I…I’m happy too.”

Lavellan wished he could share in the sentiment.

*

When Lavellan went into the large tent housing Nira, she almost smothered him with nuzzles and slobbery dragon kisses. “Hey, hey!” he giggled, swatting playfully at her. “It’s only been a few days!”

She whined and looked at him reproachfully.

“You’re right; I should’ve visited more often. I’m sorry.” He patted her shoulder before peeking at her wing, smiling wide when he saw it was almost entirely healed. “Good as new, huh? You just have a little scar now, like me.”

Frederic walked into the tent, beaming when he saw Lavellan. “She’s healed up quite nicely, no?” To Lavellan’s surprise, Nira didn’t even growl at the researcher when he approached her and scratched her chin. She started _purring_ , in fact, a low, rumbly sound coupled by the thudding of her tail against the ground. “I must admit, I had my doubts when you brought her here, Inquisitor, but she’s turned out to be a marvelous creature indeed.”

Nira let her tongue loll. Lavellan laughed. “I’m glad she was in good hands, Professor. Not so keen on dissecting her now, are you?”

Frederic looked properly abashed. “I was foolish to even have suggested such an idea! Besides, I doubt she’d even let me try. Look at those claws! I expect they’ll grow to be nearly a foot long, and her teeth…oh dear.” His eyes darted back and forth, and then he leaned in slightly. “And of course there is the matter of her second breath weapon. Or mind weapon, as you suggested.”

Lavellan folded his arms. “I’ve seen nothing else to suggest that she even has one, Professor. Have you?”

“I believe she dreams, Inquisitor,” Frederic said quietly. “Vividly, in the Fade, as we do.”

“How do you know this?” Lavellan asked quickly.

“When she sleeps, her eyelids move as ours do – a sign of dreaming, I have found. And she appears restless at times, even to the point of making sound.”

Nira whined at the lack of pets and Lavellan stroked her horn distractedly before turning back to the Professor. “You said the fact that they even have breath weapons makes them like mages, didn’t you? So…of course she’d have a connection of some sort to the Fade.”

“Yes, but…” Frederic took a deep breath. “Imagine what this means, Inquisitor! A dragon, walking the Fade? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that such a creature would attract demons and spirits by the hundreds?”

Lavellan frowned. “Are you saying she could become an abomination?”

Nira sneezed, swatting halfheartedly at a fly buzzing around her muzzle. Frederic sighed. “I do not know, Inquisitor. But I think that’s most unlikely…if such a thing were possible, I expect it would’ve happened when she was a baby. Clearly, she is quite capable of defending herself now.”

But Lavellan was still worried. “Powerful mages can still be vulnerable to temptation, Professor. I assume the same holds true for dragons.”

“Perhaps,” Frederic agreed. “But alas, I am getting away from myself – you asked if I had any evidence of her having a second breath weapon? Well...” He shook his head. “You may think me mad, Inquisitor. Adan did not see it; he was fetching more elfroot. I was the only soul to witness…”

“What happened, Professor?”

Frederic shifted fretfully. “Her _eyes_ , Inquisitor.”

“Yes?” Lavellan peered into Nira’s eyes, just to make sure – they were the same lovely gold they’d always been. “What about them? They look fine to me –”

“No, no,” Frederic shook his head frantically. “It was for but a moment or two, but in that moment they changed!” His own eyes were wide. “I have never seen anything like it, Inquisitor. They were gold, and then they were…fractured. Marbled. Violet and blue, like the eyes of…of…” He licked his lips nervously. “A spirit.”

“A spirit,” Lavellan said doubtfully. He poked Nira’s side and she grunted. “She seems very corporeal to me.”

“The spirit is within, then!” Frederic said excitedly. “It could be the answer to all our questions about dragons and how they came to be! Perhaps, they are not all that they seem; not just animals but creatures forever bonded with spirits –”

“Frederic,” Lavellan said. “Could you mind have just been playing tricks on you? I find it very unlikely that –”

“Wait, there is something else,” Frederic hurried on. “Her wing, Inquisitor – we used no healing magic on it. None.”

Lavellan stared at him, then stared at the wing. His eyes narrowed. “What? But that doesn’t make any…that’s not possible. It couldn’t have healed so well on its own. What did you use, then?”

Frederic wrung his hands. “We had placed a fresh salve on it the third night she was here, and…when we awoke and returned to examine her…it was scarred over. And Inquisitor…no tonic could have done such a thing. It was an open, bloodied wound, and in the morning…”

“Maybe a mage snuck in and healed her themselves?” Lavellan was grasping at straws, but the alternative made no sense.

Frederic still looked troubled. “It was odd, Inquisitor, that is all I can say for certain. Very, very odd.”

Nira blinked at them innocently with her golden eyes.

*

Lavellan thought Leliana should plan parties more often.

Mysteriously, several roast boars had showed up in the kitchens, along with ten more barrels of apples, fifteen barrels of pears, a hefty shipment of fine Tevinter wine and Rivaini ale, thirty four huge sacks of flour, and at least three hundred tiny cakes straight from Val Royeaux.

In addition, the normal fairy lanterns outside had been enchanted to float above the crowd like fireflies, and the group of bards who were called in were the wildest bunch Lavellan had ever met. Satinalia had been elegant by comparison – this was just… _fun_.

Before the party, Lavellan, as promised, found himself busily making pies with an impatient Sera and overeager Josephine in the crowded kitchen. Most of the food had already been made and was being carted out by the platter, but Sera insisted pies were an _art_ and you just couldn’t rush art.

“Make your pie lattices look like dicks,” Sera said critically after examining Lavellan’s work for the fifth time. “Too boring otherwise.”

“I feel like that would be in poor taste,” Josephine mumbled around a mouthful of pear slices.

“No, no, that’s a lovely idea, Sera,” Lavellan chuckled, rearranging the lattices until they vaguely resembled the doodles Sera kept leaving on Cullen’s reports. “How’s that?”

“Ha! Great! Make Dorian eat it, yeah?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Lavellan frowned and set the finished pie aside, silently reaching for a new crust.

Sera sniggered. “Oh, come on, everyone knows!”

Josephine leaned forward, eyes round. “What? Knows what? That you make Dorian eat –” She went pink. “Oh! Oh. I…really?”

Lavellan glowered and smacked some cinnamon-covered apple chunks into his crust. “No. It’s…complicated. And everyone does _not_ know, Sera.”

“Well, uh, yeah, lots of people have _guessed_ –”

Lavellan sighed, shoulders slumping. “Guessing isn’t the same as knowing. And I wish…” He closed his eyes. “I want people to know, actually. But Dorian just…he’s just…”

“An arseface?” Sera supplied. “Pretty arseface, but still. Hey, we warned you that he’s a floozy!” She wrinkled her nose. “Wait, is he just shagging you now?”

Lavellan swallowed. “I…” He nodded vigorously. “Yes! Of course, he wouldn’t…I mean, you don’t think he would, right?”

Sera grimaced. “You want an honest answer?”

“No,” he said miserably, laying the lattices down in the shapes of trees, sprinkling them with sugar and cinnamon and trying not to think of how thoroughly kissed Dorian had looked in the library…before Lavellan had kissed him. It was just the alcohol. It had to be.

“I think he’s an honorable man,” Josephine cut in earnestly. “And he respects you very much, Inquisitor! I’m sure if you simply talked to him –”

“I tried. He told me he’s leaving after the Breach is closed and Corypheus is defeated,” Lavellan snapped, louder and harsher than he meant. A passing servant nearly dropped his armful of bread. “He’s going back to Tevinter.”

“Oh,” Josephine murmured, looking down forlornly at her half-made pie. “That is…most unfortunate.”

“So make him stay!” Sera exclaimed, shoving his shoulder. “C’mon, Mr. Mopeyface, lookin’ sad won’t get you nowhere with Lord Fancypants. You gotta, like…well, I dunno what he likes. Romantic dinner? Venatori skulls? Love letters?”

“Love letters?!” Lavellan spluttered. “I don’t – we aren’t – he’s my friend!”

“But you also care for him deeply, Inquisitor,” Josephine pressed. “Do not let him leave without telling him that! Perhaps he feels the same.” She put her floury hands on her hips. “Trust me, Inquisitor, I have read far too many romantic tragedies to know where this is going! Miscommunication is the _worst_ plot device, truly!”

Lavellan hesitated. “But…I don’t even know what I want, or how I feel about him. What would I…what would I even say?”

“Well, you want the Inquisition to know ‘bout the two of you, yeah?” Sera prompted. “So tell him that! That you wanna make it official. That’s a good start, innit?”

Lavellan cracked a smile. “I…yes, I think it might be. Thank you.”

“Anytime, Mopeyface. Now…anyone have any frosting? I wanna draw an arse cheek on this one.”

*

The pies, dick designs and all, were well-received and Leliana kept gushing about Josephine’s newfound culinary skills. Lavellan didn’t have the heart to tell her that Josephine had eaten more pie than she’d made. Sera, meanwhile, basked in the praise and giggled whenever someone took a bite out of Lavellan’s artistic masterpieces.

The party was in full swing outside, and Lavellan had joined in the festivities with the masses for a while, before Leliana suggested the inner circle ‘retire’ to a special area she’d cordoned off just for them. This area turned out to be the tavern, though it was much cleaner and more colorful than usual. It also had more drinks, somehow. At Varric’s bequest, they all sat at the big table with haphazard stacks of cards – it seemed the dwarf was determined to get a game of Wicked Grace in before the night was over.

Lavellan’s heart skipped a beat when Dorian came into the tavern with Cullen, chatting animatedly about mage rights or chess or something. To Lavellan’s relief, he didn’t look drunk, and when their eyes met the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a soft smile before he took his seat next to Vivienne and across from the Commander.

Harding and Dagna were there too, along with Morrigan, Krem, Michel, Ser Barris, Fairbanks, Loranil, and Jana. But only Harding and Krem were brave enough to play against Varric and Josephine with the rest of the inner circle. “Alright,” Harding said. “Time to get this party _really_ started.”

“Someone give me a challenge,” Krem shot back, squaring his shoulders.

“Deal ‘em in, Ruffles!” Varric said with a rather evil gleam in his eye.

Josephine seemed unaware of the impending danger. “Oh, I do hope I recall the rules! It’s been ages since I’ve played.”

Bull tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. “Are we playing cards or what?”

Vivienne took a sip of her wine. “Indeed. I’m afraid this will be far too easy.”

Sera snorted. “Yeah, right! Gonna enjoy beatin’ you, Vivvy.”

Cassandra bit her lip. “Are three Songs better than a pair of Daggers? I can never remember.”

Varric’s evil gleam brightened. “Seeker. Remember how I said, “don’t show anyone your hand”? That rule includes announcing it to the entire table.”

Cole was staring intently at his cards. “There’s a crown on his head…but a sword, too. His head didn’t want either.”

Varric chuckled. “Don’t talk to the face cards, kid.”

Cullen folded his arms. “You seem to have plenty of people. I have a thousand things to do…”

Dorian smiled and nudged him playfully. “Losing money can be both relaxing and habit-forming. Give it a try!”

Varric chortled in agreement. “Curly, if any man in history needed a hobby, it’s you.”

“Seconded,” Leliana murmured. Cullen glared at her.

Josephine quickly intervened. “Dealer starts. Ooh…I believe I’ll start at…three coppers! Do you think that’s too daring?”

Vivienne sniffed. “Darling, I believe that’s the opposite of daring.”

“Four, then?”

Bull rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Who starts with coppers? Silver, or go home!”

“If only I could,” Solas deadpanned, glowering from behind his cards. Cole patted his arm.

“Sounds good. I’m in,” Blackwall agreed easily.

“Bolder the better, right?” Dorian tossed some coins onto the table. “I’m in.”

Sera grinned. “Oh, you’re on!”

Cassandra blinked and grudgingly nodded. Vivienne waved her hand in a presumably affirmative gesture.

“Me, too,” Varric said.

“The coins glitter in the darkness…so dark. Why is everything so dark?” Cole murmured.

Solas sighed. “I would prefer to watch this round, I think.”

Josephine smiled at Lavellan. “And you, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan shrugged. “Why not? I’m in.”

“Ante up, Inquisitor,” Varric told him.

“Wait, wait!” Sera pounded on the table. “We gotta make conditions!”

“Conditions? Explain, Buttercup.”

“Like, for the loser. Whoever loses after three rounds…has to do a dare. Yeah! A dare.”

Vivienne scoffed. “Really, darling? What are we, twelve?”

“Hey! It’s a good idea. And I get to make the dares, so they’ll be extra dare-y,” Sera reasoned.

“What if you lose?” Blackwall asked.

“Me? Lose?” Sera cackled. “Nice one, beardy. So, it’s a deal? Loser gets dared by me?”

Josephine giggled. “It certainly makes it more interesting.”

“And Cullen won’t be in danger of losing his clothes this time, hopefully,” Varric pointed out.

“Shame,” Dorian remarked.

Cullen rubbed his temple. “I hate you all.”

*

They were well into the third round (of the game and of the drinks), and Lavellan was still going strong. Apparently, he’d gotten much better since last time – he kept drawing Knights and Angels. The next card he drew, though, was the Serpent of Lust. A bad card, in more ways than one. He gritted his teeth, sincerely hoping Cole didn’t make a completely inappropriate comment. But strangely, the spirit seemed quite focused on Dorian.

Bull was nearly finished with telling a story about the time the Chargers took down an entire grove of talking trees when Cole leaned forward and said, “Darkness…with a glimmer of light, my light, but I have to let go of the light or –”

“Cole, whatever are you talking about?” Dorian asked tightly, eyebrow raised. He carefully shielded his cards from view.

Cole tilted his head. “Death…oh. I see. Angel of Death.”

Dorian cursed.

“Sparkler! Cheating? I can’t believe it,” Varric crowed smugly.

“Hey! That’s not fair!” Dorian protested.

“Life’s not fair, darling,” Vivienne said. “And my hand is excellent, so please, by all means, play the ending card.”

Dorian looked desperately around the table. But everyone else looked quite smug.

“Fine!” he snapped, throwing his cards down. Everyone else followed suit.

“Nice one, Inquisitor! Two Knights, an Angel, and a Serpent…but my hand is better,” Varric announced, setting down four Knights and an Angel. “Dorian…oh, shit. You weren’t kidding. That’s an awful hand.”

Dorian sank down in his seat, with four Serpents and a Dagger in front of him.

Bull snickered, showing the table his three Knights and two Songs. Krem had a similarly decent hand. Vivienne had all Songs, Blackwall had an Angel and three Daggers, Leliana had three Knights and two Angels, Cassandra had a Knight, a Serpent, and three Daggers, and Cullen had one of each.

“Ha!” Sera threw down her cards. Five Angels, a perfect hand.

“How…?” Josephine narrowed her eyes but shrugged and revealed her own – four Knights and an Angel. “I had no idea you were so gifted at cards, Sera.”

Sera winked. “I’m the best. Pay up!”

Everyone grudgingly did. Then Sera turned to Dorian with a shit-eating grin. “It’s dare time, Fancypants.”

Dorian sniffed. “I reserve the right to veto.”

“No vetoes,” she retorted. “Cheaters don’t get veto rights.”

Dorian made a face, but relented. “Fine. What’ll it be, then?”

Sera paused, but Lavellan knew she was only _pretending_ to think when she winked at him from across the table. Oh, that scheming little…what was she planning?!

“A-ha!” she cried. “I’ve got it. Dorian Fancypants Pavus, I dare you to kiss the prettiest one in the tavern.”

Josephine’s eyes lit up and she gave Lavellan a small smile. Lavellan gaped at Sera. Oh, no. No, but also…yes.

“On the lips,” Sera specified. “For at least five seconds.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “With tongue.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Are you quite finished?”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Yep. What’re you waiting for? Snap, snap.”

Slowly, Dorian rose from his chair, the legs squeaking too-loudly on the floorboards, eyes trained carefully on the floor. Lavellan held his breath as Dorian walked to the other side of the table, five chairs away from Lavellan, four, three, two –

He leaned down and kissed Cullen hard.

The tavern exploded into an uproar of sound, the Commander’s muffled curse becoming clear when he finally managed to push Dorian away, eyes wide and face scarlet. “Maker’s breath, what in the Void was _that_?!” Dorian gave a little unapologetic shrug, smirking and straightening up.

Sera’s jaw seemed to have stopped working. Bull was hooting with laughter, Blackwall was trying to remain serious, Vivienne was attempting to down her entire glass, Varric was grinning, Leliana raised an eyebrow, Solas looked like he was getting the worst headache of his life, Cole was hunched over, and Josephine and Cassandra were staring at Lavellan with matching shocked, horrified expressions.

Lavellan didn’t know what expression he was making. He just felt numb – all the pieces were clicking into place now, and he didn’t like the picture they were painting.

“Glad to provide the entertainment,” Dorian said blithely.

And Lavellan just…snapped. He stood up sharply, the chair scraping stridently on the ground, his fists clenched and jaw set. The tavern quieted. Dorian looked at him, finally, and his smirk faltered. “What is wrong with you,” Lavellan hissed.

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne coughed lightly. “Perhaps now is not the time for theatrics –”

But Lavellan just shook his head, glaring so hard at Dorian that he might as well have been shining a spotlight on him. “Fuck you,” he growled. Suddenly, he felt as if he might cry. “Fuck you,” he repeated again, softer, and he left before he did something else he regretted, his eyes brimming with furious tears. Behind him, the tavern erupted into voices again, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

When had everything gone so wrong?

And why did he feel like it was all his fault?

*

Nobody tried to follow Lavellan when he stormed out of the tavern, or at least he’d thought no one had – but only a few minutes after reaching his quarters, someone knocked frantically at the door. Lavellan, too angry to even think, strode over and flung it open…only for Dorian himself to be standing there.

“Get out,” Lavellan snapped, trying to close it, but Dorian pushed his way in, the door locking behind him. Lavellan backed away, shaking his head crossly. “What do you _want_?!”

Dorian ran a hand through his hair, opening his mouth, then closing it. “Lavellan, I didn’t…I mean, we never said we were exclusive!”

Lavellan was pretty sure the blood roaring in his ears was covering up the sound of his heart shattering into a million pieces. “We never said we weren’t!” he spat.

Dorian frowned at him. “Well, regardless, now everyone in the tavern knows that we –”

“Half of them knew already!” Lavellan cried, throwing his hands up. Dorian’s frown grew. “And now they know you’re a cheating bastard, too!”

“Well, I’ll admit it’s been a while since I’ve played Wicked Grace, but –”

“Not just a cheater at cards, you idiot,” Lavellan said flatly. “On me.”

Dorian’s eyes widened almost comically. “I…what?! Why would you even suggest that I –”

“Oh, no. No, don’t you dare play coy with me, Pavus. I saw you in the library last night, wasted, with your stupid messy hair and messy clothes and I saw Cullen, too, on the ramparts afterwards and he –”

“Inquisitor, really!” Dorian interrupted, his eyebrows furrowing and his cheeks beginning to color with indignance. “I’m sorry for what happened in the tavern but I swear –”

“Don’t even try to deny it; you’re just making this worse! You won’t even look at me now, much less touch me, because _clearly_ you’d rather be touching him –”

A wave of force magic slammed Lavellan against the wall so hard the breath was knocked out of him, his body pinned in place with Dorian advancing. “You want me to touch you? Fine. But just _listen_ to me, please!”

Lavellan struggled, thrashing harder the closer Dorian got. “No! Let me go, you bastard –” But then he was paralyzed from the neck down, and when Dorian stood inches away from him there was nothing he could do but curse and bare his teeth ferally, ears pinned back. His pulse thundered, terrified despite the fact that he knew he could trust Dorian; he _could_ …except he couldn’t anymore because Dorian had betrayed that trust. His breath caught, frantic.

“Lavellan, just calm down!”

“Then _let go of me_ , idiot –”

“Me?!” Dorian exclaimed. “ _I’m_ the idiot here? You’re the one who got himself stabbed in the fucking back and would’ve bled out if it wasn’t for me! And then you decided to play the hero and drink from a Well full of ancient magic that nearly killed you! Don’t you dare accuse me of being the idiot here!”

Lavellan stared at him wildly, chest heaving. Dorian’s expression softened and Lavellan felt the unyielding edge of the magic lessen slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian breathed, peering down at Lavellan earnestly. “I never meant to hurt you.”

And then Lavellan saw the bruises on his neck, partly hidden by his high collar and his dark skin but impossible to miss once seen. Lavellan made a strangled sound. “You son of a…”

“What?” Dorian asked, blinking in bewilderment.

“I trusted you,” Lavellan snarled, shaking his head. “I might have even…” The words wouldn’t come out. Dorian didn’t deserve them, anyway. “And now you’re lying to my face.”

Dorian’s eyes sparked with realization. He reached out, touching Lavellan’s cheek. “No, no, it isn’t what it looks like –”

Lavellan flinched away from his hand. “Stop! Just…stop.”

But Dorian stubbornly tugged him closer, the magic immobilizing Lavellan even further, leaving him helpless in a way he never wanted to be. “Echo, listen to me!”

Lavellan trembled, thrumming with rage and hurt. The Mark crackled to life, startling Dorian. “Let go of me right now,” he whispered, “or I’ll scream, and everyone will know just how terrible the Tevinter magister is. But maybe that’s for the best – you’d be sent back to the home you love so very much, after all.”

Dorian stared at him, betrayal written in every line of his face. It was just a taste of his own medicine, wasn’t it? But his hand dropped limply to his side and he stepped back. The magic holding Lavellan released abruptly. “That’s…that’s it, then? You’re just going to…end it?”

“You ended it as soon as you lived up to your reputation, scorto,” Lavellan retorted. “It’s over, whatever _it_ even was in the first place.”

“Fine, Inquisitor,” Dorian said dully. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Do you?”

Without another word, Dorian turned on his heel and left.

Lavellan wondered why his absence just made him feel worse than before.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, guys, thanks for your comments on the last chapter :) they mean a lot, even though a lot of you were very mad at me ;D  
> This chapter isn't nearly as good as it was the first time I wrote it...ugh. Basically, yesterday my computer decided to just say NOPE and I ended up having to wipe the whole thing and lost almost all my files (including over half my DA:I save files and the file for this story, unfortunately), so the 5k I had for this chapter was totally gone. I tried my best, but my heart wasn't really in it, so I apologize for the possibly lower quality :/
> 
> hope you enjoy nonetheless <3 oh, and - I had a wild idea for this story the other day, and if I can make it work, the story might be longer and/or have a sequel :0 no promises yet, though.

The dream Lavellan had that night was the worst one yet.

He was somewhere dark and damp and cramped, surrounded by shifting shadows that could have been people or mist – it was hard to focus on them when he held Dorian’s limp, lifeless body in his arms. The mage’s gray eyes stared at nothing, his perfect skin was marred by bruises, and he had bloodied, raw wrists – though the worst mark by far was the sunburst scar on his forehead. Lavellan’s breath shortened, his grip tightening. “No,” he whispered. “No! Dorian? Dorian, please –”

Slowly, Dorian blinked and began to sit up, staring at him impassively. “Do not panic,” he said, and Lavellan almost recoiled at how _wrong_ his voice sounded – flat and cold and _empty_. “I am fine.”

“No,” Lavellan whispered. “You’re…who did this to you? Why?!”

Dorian’s head tilted. “The Inquisition did, of course – you gave the order. It was for the best. I was dangerous, and now I am not.”

“You’re not him,” Lavellan snapped, blinking back tears. “He’s gone.”

“I am not dead, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s hand fell to the dagger at his belt. Dorian’s hand covered his, and the action had surprising malice behind it. “That course of action is inadvisable,” he informed Lavellan, expression still unchanging.

Lavellan’s hand shook. “It’s what he would want,” he snarled, and then he twisted, kicking and rolling, using Dorian’s weight against him and pinning him firmly against the slick stone, dagger pressing hard against his collarbones, blood beading up.

Dorian’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand,” he said. “You would save me, only to kill me?”

“I’m saving you now,” Lavellan whispered, closing his eyes and bringing the blade down.

A hand caught his wrist. His eyes flew open. A scream caught in his throat – a faceless, twisting shadow lay in Dorian’s place, the dagger halfway through its translucent chest, strong fingers gripping Lavellan’s wrist hard enough to break it. He scrambled backwards, eyes wide. The creature laughed, standing with him. “So you would murder him even though there might be a solution to his Tranquility? Harsh, da’len.”

Lavellan trembled, his skin cold and tingling from where the creature had touched him. The tingling, he realized, was from magic. Power. He swallowed. “Solution?” he retorted, taking a preemptive step back. “What do you mean? Having a spirit touch his mind wouldn’t make him Dorian again. It would just make him something else – Justice, Valor, Mercy…”

It considered this. “This is true, to an extent,” it admitted. “Anything touched for too long by the Fade and the things in it changes somehow.” The creature chuckled. “You would know, wouldn’t you, Inquisitor? You walked the Fade in the flesh, after all. And then you left it…a most extraordinary thing.”

Lavellan’s hand sparked as if in reply, green coiling across his palm and around his wrist like a serpent, sending prickles of pain through his arm. He winced. “Yes, well. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. I don’t recommend it.”

The creature laughed again. “Then you are lucky, da’len – if not for your Mark you would be trapped there for eternity like your Warden friend, consumed by the Nightmare and whatever else wished to feed upon you…but in the end, the outcome is the same. From the Fade you came, and to the Fade you shall come again. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…oh, Inquisitor, I wonder how your ashes will taste.”

Lavellan flinched back, and as he did the shadow shifted, changed, the void of its face interrupted by the opening of two wide eyes – marbled, violet and blue like a spirit’s. But beyond the swirling colors he could see round, luminous irises not unlike his own…the eyes of an elf.

Lavellan shook his head. “What are you?” he whispered.

The creature blinked back at him, body dissolving slowly into smoky shadows. “A friend,” it murmured.

*

That morning, Lavellan worked up the courage to approach Cullen.

He was well aware of what was at stake – Cullen was a brilliant Commander and a dear friend, so Lavellan managed to resist the urge to burst into his office at once, demanding an explanation. Instead, he took a deep breath and knocked at the door, only for Cullen to open it barely a few seconds later, his brows furrowing when he saw Lavellan.

“Good morning, Commander,” Lavellan said with a tight smile.

Cullen sighed, shoulders slumping. “Ah…Inquisitor. Come in, please.” He opened the door, and Lavellan followed him in, standing in front of the huge oak desk. Cullen sat heavily in his chair, eying Lavellan with a kind of resigned sadness. “I suspect you are here because of what happened last night in the tavern? You have every right to be upset, Inquisitor – what Dorian did was…unfair to you. He is a good man, but sometimes I think he does cruel things without realizing their consequences.”

Lavellan folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “So you _knew_ about Dorian and I, and you still slept with him?”

Cullen’s eyes widened, and he turned scarlet. “I…what?! Inquisitor, I assure you, I never…why would you even –”

“Don’t make excuses, Commander,” Lavellan said wearily. “The night before last, Dorian came to the library drunk and obviously debauched. And that same night, I saw you on the ramparts and you had just –”

“Oh, Maker. No…Inquisitor, I swear, I never slept with Dorian.” Cullen rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. “He is a good friend, nothing more – he never once made advances on me, not even when he was extremely drunk, and I’m fairly certain I never gave him reason to think I wanted his affections. I was under the impression that he already had yours, after all.”

Lavellan frowned. “Then…then who did you sleep with that night? Do not lie to me, Commander. I…I’ve had enough lying for a long time.”

Cullen looked increasingly flustered. “I…would really rather not…oh, very well. But you must swear to tell no one.”

“Of course.”

“Ser Barris.”

Lavellan’s mouth fell open. He quickly closed it. “I, ah, you…really?!”

Cullen put his head in his hands. “Yes. He…he’s stopped taking lyrium too, and I know how difficult it is and that night he was telling me of his nightmares and how they were getting worse and I offered to stay and…well.” He coughed. “One thing led to another.”

Lavellan bit his lip, considering this. “But…then that means Dorian slept with someone else that night.”

Cullen blinked. “How can you be certain that he was unfaithful?”

Lavellan flushed. “He…had bruises of a very specific kind, ones that I didn’t have anything to do with.”

“Did you try talking to him?”

“Try being the key word, yes,” Lavellan grumbled. “He pinned me to a wall with magic.”

Cullen’s mouth twisted and he rose from his seat. “He _what_?!”

“I’m fine,” Lavellan assured him, although he wasn’t at all. “I broke it off with him. He can go back to screwing whomever he wants without a jealous elf in his way.”

Cullen’s frown grew. “You’re more than that to him, Inquisitor,” he said quietly. “He always spoke highly of you to me.”

“Well, he called me an idiot to my face.” Lavellan sighed. “Then again, I called him a whore in Tevene.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, it seems that’s true enough.”

Lavellan barked out a short, unhappy laugh. “If only it weren’t.” He paused. “I’m still happy for you, Commander. Truly.”

Cullen smiled. “As am I, Inquisitor. Thank you.” He hesitated as Lavellan turned to go. “I assume this means you won’t be taking Dorian with you to the Altar of Mythal, then? Who will go in his stead?”

Lavellan tilted his head thoughtfully, before realizing the answer was obvious. “Solas,” he said.

Cullen gave him a puzzled look. “Forgive me, but…I thought you disliked Solas, Inquisitor.”

“Yes, but so does Dorian.”

Cullen folded his arms. “I…see.”

*

Lavellan took it upon himself to work as hard as possible, because the more he worked, the less time he had to mope about that stupid, beautiful mage. He helped Josephine prepare countless treaties for the Wardens and the Empress, he reviewed battle strategies with Cullen, he listened to Leliana’s endless reports on Venatori spies and Freemen activities, he helped gather supplies for the upcoming excursion into the Wilds, he got his armor repaired by Harritt and got Fen tuned up by Dagna, he had a surprisingly enlightening conversation with Morrigan about the Well’s voices and officially met her charming son Kieran, he visited Nira and supervised her first flight since the injury, he informed Solas of his inclusion on the mission to the Altar (which actually made him smile), and above all he avoided Dorian entirely.

Avoiding him proved to be rather easy. Avoiding thinking about him…that was next to impossible. And Lavellan hated himself for it. He hated that he had let himself fall for a man who made a hobby of constantly flaunting his assets and reaping the rewards. And a reward was all Lavellan had ever been to him. A particularly sweet one, perhaps…but it didn’t matter, because now he’d found someone better.

And Lavellan didn’t just miss the sex. That would’ve been bad enough, but he missed _Dorian_ , too. He had been a great friend, and Lavellan had ruined that now. He should have just been content with what he had – he never should’ve kissed Dorian that night so long ago, hoping for more. Because Dorian’s definition of ‘more’ was very different from his own, apparently. Lavellan had cared for him – fenedhis, he had _cared so much_ – but Dorian was probably already on his knees in front of another man now, with any thoughts of Lavellan long since forgotten.

Lavellan wasn’t even sure why Dorian had agreed to stay with him for those many glorious months – perhaps because he was the untouchable Inquisitor, a man with power, and oh how Dorian loved to play with power. But then…did all those small touches, those soft gazes, those sweet kisses – did those mean nothing? Dorian had fretted over him, healed him, held him, looked at him like he was the sun and the stars combined, made him feel like he was even more than that…how could Dorian simply turn his back on all of that? On him?

Eventually, Lavellan found himself too exhausted to work any longer, though bitterness still thrummed painfully under his skin, and it was that bitterness which led him to the tavern, to Iron Bull.

Normally, he sparred with Cassandra, Cole, or Dorian, who were all less likely to crush him accidentally. But clearly, the latter was out of the question. Cassandra would try to bring up Dorian and comfort him, and Cole would make the hurt worse instead of actually helping. So it was that he found himself standing resolutely in front of the Qunari.

“Hey, boss,” Bull said cautiously. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Spar with me,” Lavellan said. It wasn’t a request.

Bull’s eyebrow raised. “Uh…no offense, boss, but daggers might not do much against a greatsword –”

“I don’t care. Spar with me.”

Bull regarded him thoughtfully. “Listen, boss, if this about the ‘Vint –”

“Don’t.” Lavellan exhaled unevenly. “I just…you remember when we got back from the Fade, and you wanted me to hit you with that ridiculous stick to…to get rid of the fear, or something? I need that right now.”

Bull chuckled. “You want me to hit you?”

Lavellan rolled his eyes, mouth twitching slightly. “It was a metaphor.”

“Is that a yes?”

Lavellan looked down, hunching his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I’m just…the thing is…I feel like I could go and kill hundreds of Venatori and Red Templars right now, Bull.” He closed his eyes. “I just…I just don’t know if I’d ever come back.” He swallowed. “So, please. Spar with me. I’m asking you because I know…because I know you won’t hold back against the holy Herald, right? Don’t hold back.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Bull’s hand came down on his shoulder, unexpectedly gentle. “I’ve got you, boss.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan whispered.

Bull shrugged. “Anytime.” Then he grinned. “But don’t blame me if you can’t walk tomorrow.”

*

The next morning, Lavellan had aches and pains in places he didn’t even know existed.

Yawning and blinking sleepily, he stared up at the wood grain on the ceiling. It still looked like a bird – an owl, maybe, with wings outstretched as if diving down towards its prey. He sighed and stared at the empty side of the bed for a brief, unbearable moment before rolling out of bed with a groan. “No elf for you today,” he told the owl, stretching and wincing as he did so, padding over to the mirror to assess the damage.

Lavellan’s pale chest was mottled with dark bruises – bruises of force, not passion. He traced them carefully with a fingertip, ending on one marking his collarbone, where the flat of the blade had struck him heavily. If it had been real, it would have been a killing blow. A part of him almost wished it had been.

His brooding was interrupted by a patter of feet on the stairs outside, followed by a sharp rap on the door. Lavellan froze, relaxing when the intruder called, “Hey! It’s me! Open up, you!”

Sera. He hesitated – he knew she could really only be here for one reason. Then again…the fact that she even cared enough to come…he relented, and threw on a shirt before opening the door. Sure enough, Sera stood with a basket of what was most definitely cookies, pushing past him into the room before he could even begin to reconsider.

“Sera…”

She shrugged and tossed the basket down. “So, turns out Fancypants was an even bigger arseface than I thought, yeah?”

Lavellan frowned. “Sera, really, you don’t have to –”

“Never would’ve come up with that dare if I’d known he’d go for Cully-Wully!”

Lavellan laughed, but it was choked. “Yes, well,” he muttered, “now we know.”

Sera paused. “You talked to him lately? Barely seen him around.”

“Probably because he’s too busy whoring himself out to anyone who so much as looks at him!” Lavellan snapped, his voice breaking. Sera’s teasing smile fell. Lavellan didn’t look at her.

“Wait, that arseface actually –”

“Yes,” Lavellan said miserably. “Shit, Sera…I thought I was good enough. I really thought…that he…”

“Hey, hey, shhh,” Sera murmured, and then her arms were around him and he let himself crumple, burying his face against her chest, his cheeks damp with tears. She held him fiercely, resting her head atop his. “You’re good enough,” she declared. “Much better than him, that’s for sure.”

“I’m supposed to save the fucking world,” he whispered. “How am I supposed to do that when I can’t even get over a cheating Tevinter who could care less? Something must be wrong with me.”

“No,” Sera said. “There’s a lotta things wrong with you, Inquisitor, but bein’ sad about cheaters isn’t one of ‘em. People get sad. You’re people. It’d be wrong if you weren’t sad, yeah? You’re only a…” She snorted. “Well, not a human. Elf. But you’re not a god, y’know? You’re just you. That’s all you ever have to be.”

He sniffed and curled his fingers into her shirt, feeling like a child. “Thank you,” he said in a small voice.

She nodded pulling back slightly and looking at him with a gleam in her eye. “Now, as for arseface…how ‘bout lizards? I’m thinking lizards. In his breeches. The big, biting kind.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “Actually, I really don’t want to –”

“Slugs, then? Y’know, the purple ones that give people rashes –”

“Sera,” Lavellan said patiently, shaking his head. “It’s fine, really. I mean…I broke it off with him; we’re over. It’s over. I just want to let it end. That means no revenge pranks,” he added. “Although I appreciate the offer, that’s just…not what I need right now.”

Sera patted his arm and grabbed the basket from the floor. “Right, then – I know what you need! Jenny Tarts!” She stuck a hand into the basket and took out a small, freshly baked tart which she tossed at Lavellan, who caught it, bewildered. “That one’s cherry, but I also got apple and pear if you’d rather!”

Lavellan stared down at it, smiling in bemusement. The tart had dick designs on the lattices. He took a cautious bite (he’d tried Sera’s baking before and it left much to be desired) and was pleasantly surprised. “This is delicious,” he told her, and she beamed. “But why…?”

“I knew you’d love ‘em,” Sera said, grinning lopsidedly. “Also, I made extra and Cole said you were sad and they’d make it better or somethin’. Turns out, creepy spirit thing was right! You’re welcome.”

Lavellan took another bite, feeling a bit choked up when he spoke again. “You didn’t have to do this,” he mumbled.

“’Course I did,” she protested. “It’s what friends do. And you’re a friend, Inquisitor. My friend.”

“Yes,” he agreed, sitting there on the rug eating Jenny Tarts with her. “It’s…it’s good to know that I’m not alone. That I still have friends here,” he admitted.

Sera’s sharp smile softened. “Always, Inquisitor,” she said.

*

That day passed much as the previous one – endless work as a form of distraction from his misery, which was eased slightly by the basket of tarts in his quarters, the aching bruises on his skin, and the warm feeling in his chest whenever he thought of the friends he still had.

After dinner, though, he went to the gardens – for a quick stroll, but perhaps even to speak with Mother Giselle (yes, he was that desperate). Just a few minutes after he’d arrived, however, he was approached by Leliana, whose hood was down, fiery hair all astray, eyes wide with more panic than he’d ever seen on her normally serene face. “Inquisitor!” she hissed, well aware of the small audience they were garnering, curious eyes on all sides. “It’s Morrigan – she chased after her son into the eluvian. She was terrified.”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed. “Her son? Kieran?”

“Yes, she said _he_ activated the eluvian, and then she ran into it!” Leliana shook her head, troubled. “I’ve never seen Morrigan like that. You must go after her!”

“Wait, but –”

“Quickly, to the eluvian! I will find help, Inquisitor.”

And then she dashed off, leaving Lavellan staring worriedly towards the door containing the eluvian. “What is it this time?” he wondered aloud.

*

And so it was that Lavellan ended up in the Fade in the flesh a second time, an experience he would gladly have skipped altogether.

He whirled, confused and more than a little scared – but the mirror was still there. It had sent him here, not to the Crossroads…but how was that even possible? Could it lead anywhere? Lavellan swallowed nervously, ears pricked – all he had was his dagger, with no armor and no party to defend himself with. Still…if Morrigan and her son were in danger…he made up his mind, hurrying along the roughly hewn path that rose up out of the twisting green and gray mist.

Strange statues lined the pathway, some completely unrecognizable and others eerily familiar, like the one of Falon’Din, a hooded, pointing figure standing directly in front of him, grim features set in stone. Lavellan shivered and quickly continued on – it made him feel cold just looking at it.

The Nightmare’s lair had felt like an open wound, the Fade tugging on his skin as if encouraging it to slip free of his body so he could become as aimless and immaterial as the wraiths which floated past him now. But here…it was almost the opposite sensation, a kind of pervasive heaviness that made him feel small, trapped, and very unwelcome. He felt like he was most definitely being watched.

No sooner had he thought that, a flicker of movement off to his left made him falter, turning his head slowly towards it. His ears went back, alarmed – a black owl had landed on the rocks closest to him, staring unflinchingly with black eyes.

Lavellan didn’t believe it was actually an owl for one second. “Oh, and I expect you’re a demon who thinks he’s so clever? Don’t even think about it.” He lifted his hand, the Mark glowing brightly. The sickly green light reflected in the owl’s flat eyes, and it clicked its beak once before ruffling its feathers and taking flight, disappearing into the vast expanse of ‘clouds’ above. “Didn’t think so,” Lavellan muttered, walking a little faster.

Thankfully, when he rounded the next corner Morrigan was standing there at a juncture between two paths, wringing her hands and looking around frantically.

“Morrigan!” he called, hoping nothing within earshot wanted to kill them too much.

She spun, hair and eyes wild. “Go back! I must find Kieran before…before it’s too late!”

“I’m here to help,” Lavellan reassured her, aiming for calming but probably coming across as equally unsettled and mildly panicked.

But she just shook her head. “Why would Kieran do this? And _how_?! To direct the eluvian here…it would require immense power, Inquisitor.” She took a shaky breath. “If he is lost to me, now, after all I have sacrificed…”

“We’ll find him, Morrigan,” Lavellan said.

“The Fade is infinite; he could literally be anywhere!” she cried despondently, throwing up her hands. “But…whatever happens to him, ‘tis my doing. I set him on this path.”

Lavellan paused. “Your doing? What do you mean by that, exactly?”

She did not answer. “Please help me look, Inquisitor. Just a little longer.”

*

Several minutes later, they found Kieran. But he was not alone.

“No,” Morrigan whispered when she saw the tall, older woman kneeling in front of her son, an odd bluish light dancing in the air between them, seemingly coming from Kieran’s chest. “No!”

Kieran flicked his wrist, the light vanishing in an instant. He turned towards them with a guileless smile. “Mother!”

Morrigan stopped, eyes fixed on the old woman who stood slowly. “Mother,” she hissed.

The woman tilted her head. “Now, isn’t this a surprise?”

“You’re all…family?” Lavellan asked, eyes wide. And all mages – very, very powerful mages. Lovely.

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “Mother, daughter, grandson…heartwarming, isn’t it?”

“Kieran is not your grandson!” Morrigan exclaimed furiously. “Let him go!”

“He’s free to do as he likes,” the woman said with a smile. “It’s not as if I’m holding the boy hostage. She’s always been ungrateful,” she added to Lavellan.

Morrigan was getting more and more upset. “Ungrateful?! I know you plan to use him to extend your life, you wicked crone! You will not have me; and you will not have my son!” Magic flared to life in her palms, vibrant and deadly.

Lavellan gulped. But the woman just sighed and waved a hand at Lavellan. “Be a good lad and restrain her.”

“Why would I…” Lavellan took a step back as the woman’s eyes changed – marbled, violet and blue. The voices stirred suddenly in his mind, growing louder, more excited. The same blue light from before lifted from her hands, curling lazily through the air…and then something ignited in Lavellan, burning and sharp and impossible to resist – the brand. His body was moving against his will, pushing Morrigan backwards, forcing her to drop her arms, magic sputtering out.

“What are you doing?!” she cried, fighting against him, but his strength was not his own. Finally, the brand faded, and he stumbled away, clutching his head. “What are you doing?” she repeated, but now…now she sounded _afraid_.

“I don’t know,” he gasped. “What did you…what did you do to me?”

“What did _I_ do?” The woman raised an eyebrow. “It was you who drank from the Well, was it not?”

Morrigan blanched. “You…are Mythal.”

“What?” Lavellan stared. “That’s not…you’re not even…you’re…”

“Human?” she chuckled. “No, that is not the word I would use.”

“You’re not her,” he whispered. “You can’t be. I…I don’t understand.”

She approached him, eyes bright. “Once, I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely darkness for justice. And she came to me, Mythal, a wisp of an ancient being…and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried her through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her.”

“She…she’s inside of you?” Lavellan shuddered. “Like a demon?”

But she frowned. “No. She is a part of me, no more separate than your heart from your chest. She has changed me, and I have changed her – we are as one, now.”

“Then…then the gods were real?” Lavellan asked.

She inclined her head. “Real, yes. But were they truly gods? Or merely legends given names?” She smiled. “So young and vibrant…it is fitting, that one of the last remnants of the People should be the last to drink. There is much you do not yet know …but you will soon, Inquisitor Lavellan. And, though I have had many names…you may call me Flemeth.”

Then Flemeth nudged Kieran, and he went to Morrigan, who embraced him tightly. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he murmured. “I heard her calling…and he was calling, too. They said now was the time.”

Morrigan clung to him. “No, Kieran,” she whispered. “Please…”

“What do you want with him?” Lavellan snapped, though he could still feel the brand’s hold on him, and knew that if he even tried to attack this Flemeth she would not hesitate to crush him.

Flemeth gazed at him coolly. “He carries a piece of what once was, an Old God’s soul – snatched from the jaws of darkness. It is a precious thing, one that cannot be lost.”

Morrigan gritted her teeth. “Inquisitor, Flemeth extends her life by possessing the bodies of her daughters. That was the fate she intended for me…and since I thwarted her, she intends to have Kieran instead!”

“Wait, he…has an Old God inside of him? Like you have Mythal?” Lavellan didn’t know how much more of this madness he could take.

“Indeed. We are not so different, you and I,” Flemeth said kindly to Kieran.

He looked sadly at Morrigan. “Mother, I have to.”

“Kieran,” Morrigan sobbed, shaking her head. “You do not belong to her, come here, please, come back to me –”

But he stepped towards Flemeth, and she took his hands, and before Morrigan could so much as move to her son’s defense, the shifting sphere of blue light lifted from his chest and into Flemeth’s, the Fade bending and shining around it. When the light had faded, Kieran smiled hopefully. “No more dreams?” he asked. Lavellan’s brow furrowed. Dreams…?

“No more dreams,” Flemeth promised. Then she let the boy go, and he returned to his mother. Flemeth turned to them again. “A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan,” she said. “You were never in danger from me.”

Morrigan held Kieran tightly, relief clear on her face.

“As for you, Inquisitor…you know of the Altar the voices spoke of, yes? Go to it, and summon its guardian. Master it in combat, and it is yours to command against Corypheus. Fail…and die.” And with that, Flemeth turned away, walking deeper into the Fade, until the mist swallowed her up.

An owl hooted somewhere far, far in the distance.

*

When they had crossed back through the eluvian, standing once more on solid, real ground, Morrigan looked Kieran over worriedly. “Are you alright, Kieran? You’re…not hurt?”

Kieran blinked. “I feel lonely.” But then he smiled, and Morrigan smiled back before sending him off to play in the garden, leaving the two of them alone.

“She took the Old God soul?” Lavellan asked.

Morrigan nodded, though she looked rather grim. “Yes. But her plans…are unknown to me, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan frowned at the dark eluvian. “Your son…he said he had dreams. Dreams about the Old God?”

“From what he has told me, I assume so, yes,” she replied. “Although…Kieran says he only ever appeared as a kind of shadow. He spoke to him…mostly in cryptic riddles or languages he could not understand.”

Lavellan swallowed hard. “This, ah…this Old God wouldn’t happen to…not have a face, would it?”

Morrigan looked surprised. “As a matter of fact…no, it doesn’t have a face. Kieran was always frightened by that aspect, you see.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

Lavellan cleared his throat. “It was just, ah. Something I read. Very fascinating stuff.”

“Indeed.” Morrigan turned to go, casting a last look back at him. “My mother mentioned the altar you must go to. Do you know what she speaks of?”

Lavellan listened to the voices, hearing what they told him many times before. “Yes, I…it’s a place not far from the temple, dedicated to Mythal.”

Morrigan’s gaze darkened. “As, no doubt, is the guardian you must battle. Pray my mother has not let you astray, Inquisitor. She is not above doing so for her own amusement.”

As the Witch of the Wilds left him, Lavellan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to tell himself it was most definitely _not_ an Old God haunting his dreams. The idea was just absurd. Not to mention, impossible.

But if not that…then what? And _why_?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the calm before the storm...just...prepare yourself. This has been a PSA.  
> We are SO CLOSE to 200 kudos, I cannot believe. You're all incredible, and it means the world to me that you enjoy reading this ridiculous, completely out of control story of mine. It's truly one of the highlights of my week to read through your comments and it makes me smile every time!
> 
> thank you all!
> 
> oh, and my friend actualvarric and I were theorizing what Echo's reaction to this story would be. So this stupid comic happened: http://orig04.deviantart.net/e6f1/f/2015/285/3/2/20151012_194959_by_killjoyatheart-d9cxgfp.jpg
> 
> Yeah. That's probably what all of your reactions will be like towards the end, too. Just please don't actually pull a knife on me, 'kay?

“It’s here. I can feel it.”

Lavellan walked under the crumbling arches towards the wide clearing up ahead, ears pricked and footsteps soft in the forest. It was not a familiar forest, yet he felt more at home here than he ever had in windy, barren Skyhold. The trees made him feel safe. However, it seemed to have a very different effect on Cassandra and Bull, who kept glancing to and fro, constantly on guard. The trees made them feel apprehensive – after all, who knew what their twisted trunks hid from sight?

Solas fell into step beside Lavellan, eyes fixed on the clearing. “Yes,” he murmured, “I feel it as well.”

Lavellan glanced over at Nira, who was padding warily just behind him, her nostrils flared and ears flicking. A bird shrieked off to the right and she jumped slightly, eyes wide and bright. He chuckled, reaching out to stroke her neck. “Unfortunately, I really doubt the Guardian is a noisy parrot,” he told her. She snorted, raising her head as they passed under the last arch and into the sunny glen.

“As long as it’s not a bear or spiders,” Cassandra muttered. “Maker knows we’ve dealt with our fair share of those.”

“I like bears,” Lavellan said with a shrug. Bull grumbled. “When they’re not trying to eat us, I mean.”

“I find it unlikely the Guardian of Mythal is a bear,” Solas replied lightly. “Ah. Here – this is it, I believe.”

“Yes,” Lavellan agreed. The voices stirred at the sight of the two towering dragon statues flanking the stone figure of Mythal. All were crumbling and covered in a generous layer of lichens, moss, and vines, but as he ascended the steps and brushed away the flowers at the base of the statue, he could make out the runes carved there. Incredibly, they were as easy for him to read as any inscription in Common. The voices made the strange, twisting symbols into something he could understand.  
“We few who travel far, call to me and I will come. Without mercy, without fear.” Lavellan was about to read the rest when Solas continued it.

“Cry havoc in the moonlight, let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear.” Solas smiled at him. “A very old invocation, perfectly translated.”

“Fire of vengeance?” Cassandra muttered. “That is…not comforting.”

“Mythal was the goddess of justice,” Lavellan explained, laying his palm flat against the cold, ancient stone. “And her husband, Elgar’nan, was the god of vengeance.”

Bull furrowed his brow. “Aren’t they pretty much the same thing?”

“No,” Solas said sharply. “They are complete opposites. In the Fade, one can find spirits of Justice. But when such spirits are corrupted, they become demons. Of Vengeance. It is a crueler, more primal trait. Justice is blind. Vengeance is blinded by rage.”

“Elgar’nan wasn’t a demon, though,” Lavellan murmured. Solas opened his mouth, then frowned and closed it. Nira stayed at a distance from the altar, watching the forest cautiously, but they seemed to be more or less alone. Lavellan studied the statue further. “Strange that there wasn’t an altar like this in the Temple of Mythal. It was a place of justice, of judgment…but this is different.” Lavellan closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the Wilds. “This was where the elves called to her. Spoke to her.” When he opened his eyes again, Solas was gazing at him with…surprise? Curiosity? Approval? Lavellan did not know.

“Then one day she disappeared, and they had no one to speak to,” he sighed, stepping back. “And this is all that remains.”

Bull stared at the statue. “Looks like a dragon with boobs,” he remarked.

Solas sniffed. “She is the Mother of the Gods,” he snapped. “Show some respect.”

But Lavellan folded his arms, turning away from the altar of the lost being. “We’re not here to show respect. We’re here to get what we were promised.” He lifted his eyes to the pale blue sky, wondering if anyone could actually hear him up there. “I’m here, just as you asked!” Lavellan cried. “I’m ready to face your Guardian!”

There were several long moments of silence. Then Nira’s low growl rumbled through the air an instant before a huge dragon, larger than any they’d encountered before, rose up from the trees with a resounding roar. Its gold and green wings billowed as it dove down, landing in the clearing with surprising lightness and grace.

“Oh, fuck _yeah_ ,” Bull said fervently. “Way better than a bear.”

Nira bared her teeth, but strangely enough she was backing off from the larger dragon, whining and lowering her head as she did so. “Inquisitor,” Cassandra said nervously, “your dragon does not seem keen to help us.”

Solas gripped his staff, frost crackling in the air as flames glowed warningly in the Guardian’s maw. “She recognizes her inferiority,” he said. The Guardian pawed at the earth, and when it tossed its head and looked them all straight in the eyes, Lavellan was struck for a moment by how incredibly like Nira she looked. The horns were larger, the coloration was different, and the size of course was not even close…but their eyes and the tips of their scales, gold and shining, were very much the same. So, too, was the lean, lithe build of their bodies, the armored crest on their necks, and the sharp point of their ears.

Lavellan had little time to ponder this unexpected similarity before a very large, very hot fireball shot straight at him. He just barely managed to roll out of the way in time, quickly sinking into stealth and moving to flank the creature as Bull rushed in enthusiastically, followed by a more guarded Cassandra and buffered by Solas’s barrier.

Solas’s barriers were much stronger than Dorian’s, Lavellan thought with a mixture of satisfaction and bitterness. Oh, but he wished Dorian were here, slinging lightning and flames from his fingertips like it was nothing, spinning and whirling with undeniable elegance, casting a smug grin over his shoulder at Lavellan whenever he did something particularly impressive. Which was about every thirty seconds.

And then afterwards…he would go to Lavellan first, lips parted and eyes bright with concern, and if Lavellan was bleeding even the tiniest bit he would fuss silently, mustache twitching with barely restrained reprimands as he healed him, palms warm and soft on his skin…lips brushing his ear, smirking as he pulled away, leaving Lavellan wanting more even from that little thing; but then again he’d always wanted more from Dorian.

He still wanted more.

But he couldn’t have it. Grimacing, he threw his hidden blades with narrowed eyes and steady hands, both of them lodging firmly in the Guardian’s softer underbelly, between two pearly scales. It howled, turning on him with teeth flashing in the sunlight, claws swiping towards him angrily. He dodged again, arrows raining down on the dragon, some clattering harmlessly off of its thick armor, others finding their mark in the soft spots, the vulnerable places, splattering red blood across green scales.

Nira, meanwhile, practically cowered alongside the treeline, though she watched him steadily, and he knew if he were in danger she would come to his aid, no matter her apparent reluctance to fight the Guardian. But the fight was well under control – Bull hacked and whirled like a tornado at the dragon’s feet, too fast and heavy for it to kick away easily, grunting with satisfaction whenever the dragon nearly roasted him. Cassandra was less impulsive and relied more on her strategy, her strength, sword dancing through the air and slicing cleanly, face a mask of concentration, shoving the Guardian’s fire back with her mighty shield.

And Solas…Lavellan was not sure how to describe him or how he fought. It was with ease, certainly – more than once Lavellan had seen Dorian strain himself, sweat beading on his brow as he summoned a spell he had barely enough mana left for – but Solas’s every movement was smooth, unhurried, and very, very practiced. His expression was calm, but focused, and he knew where the battle needed him most – Bull overstepped and was knocked down; Solas revived him within seconds. Cassandra’s armor was sundered; he cast a heavy barrier over her. A wall of flame was sent hurtling towards Lavellan; Solas stopped it dead with a wall of ice.

But despite its usefulness, Lavellan still hated how Solas’s magic felt. It made him feel as the Fade had when he’d searched for Kieran – like an open wound, searching for a way inside, pressing down on him insistently.

It was easy for Lavellan to get lost in his thoughts like this during fights – firing his bow was a repetitive, almost instinctive motion, adrenaline powering him through it, arrows singing through the air, one after another. He never ran out because of a handy spell Dorian had long ago enchanted his quiver with – no, no, Dorian’s not here, he’ll never be here, stop it. The fletching of the arrow nicked his cheek as he let it fly in a moment of distraction, a sharp pain bringing him back to the present, back to the dragon who was…surrendering?

The Guardian, with a bout of flame and a flap of wings, landed on the other side of the clearing, head bowed slightly, wings halfway-spread in a gesture Lavellan recognized as wary submission. He paused, and so did the Guardian, eyes now fixed solely on him. He took a step forward and saw Cassandra move out of the corner of his vision – he quickly turned, shaking his head. She faltered, but obeyed. So did Nira, tail lashing anxiously.

The Guardian did not move. Lavellan, slowly, went to stand before it. There was a moment of uneasy peace. Then the dragon roared, heat washing over Lavellan – but not fire; it was not a warning but a final test. He stood, waiting until the roar had died out. The dragon bowed its head fully, and Lavellan did the same.

The voices murmured, told him what to do. And he did, and the brand within him reignited, passing on to the Guardian in a burst of ethereal light, changing its eyes for a brief second from warm gold to cold, marbled blue. For an instant, Lavellan felt the Guardian’s mind, the sheer vastness and power it contained, and he was startled to find intelligence, too – and a single, soft word.

_Yes._

Then the Guardian left them, wind buffeting the grass in the now-quiet glen, the treetops rustling in its wake.

“ _Boss_ ,” Bull breathed. “What is it with you and the dragon tamer shit?”

Cassandra bit her lip, gazing off in the direction the Guardian had gone. “Why did it fly off? Will it come back?”

Lavellan nodded. “It will come when I summon it. Once.” He managed a smile. “That’s enough to fight Corypheus, however. I have my dragon.”

Nira, who had finally worked up the courage to approach, snorted reproachfully. Lavellan chuckled and stroked her shoulder. “Of course, you’re right. I have _two_ dragons. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Solas folded his arms. “Now all we have to do is find him.”

*

Every time they returned from a major mission of some kind, banquets were held in the Throne Room, with Lavellan and his party as the guests of honor. They weren’t nearly as extravagant as the parties at Skyhold, but Lavellan liked them nonetheless – they felt less showy, more humble and comfortable. He wasn’t being raised on a pedestal alone – and even then, the pedestal wasn’t much higher than everyone else. He could sit and drink with whomever he wanted, from the highest nobles to the lowest servants.

Tonight, he was sitting with Bull and his Chargers, listening to a story Dalish was telling about how she’d once managed to convince an entire village that it was a special elvhen bow mechanism that caused the conspicuous lightning strikes used to wipe out the ghasts that had been plaguing the land.

Lavellan took a generous swig of the ale Krem had offered him, leaning back in his chair as the warmth settled in his belly. “I certainly wish I had a bow that did that,” he laughed. “I mean, corruption runes are all very well and good, but arrows and lightning are a winning combination.”

Dalish shrugged. “It’s a gift,” she said. Grim rolled his eyes.

“So,” Bull said, “is Solas like…a permanent addition to the team? ‘Cause I gotta say, boss, his ass isn’t nearly as nice to look at as –”

Lavellan’s dark glare cut him off.

“Right,” Bull said. “No talking ‘bout the ‘Vint, or his ass, apparently. I can get behind that.” He snickered. “Yeah, I could _really_ get behind that.”

Krem nudged Lavellan’s shoulder. “Aw, cheer up, Inquisitor. We got you a gift to help with that – should be here any minute now, right, Chief?”

Bull grinned. “Damn right.”

Lavellan blinked. “What did you –”

The doors to the Throne Room burst open and Lavellan’s eyes widened in slowly-dawning, horrified realization as a dozen women in loose, revealing clothes sauntered into the hall, drawing a chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls. They laughed, batting their eyes and dispersing into the crowd, most of them quickly finding suitable customers. Or victims, more like. Lavellan stared at Bull. “Oh, no. You did not seriously –”

“Oh, yeah we did. With all that extra coin we’re gettin’, we rented out the entire Black Lotus – best brothel this side of the Frostbacks, boss.” Bull just chuckled at Lavellan’s furious expression. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“I swear, I am this close to strangling –”

“Well, hello, handsome. Or would you prefer _Inquisitor_?”

A warm weight pressed against Lavellan’s side, and when he turned his head he saw a smirking female elf standing there (or rather, leaning on him so insistently he thought he might fall off his chair). She had brown, dusky skin and thinly arched brows above hazel eyes that peered at him with distinct amusement from under wild black curls. He tried valiantly not to let his gaze slip any lower, but her blouse was _very_ low cut, and her chest was nearly perfectly level with his eyes.

Bull and Krem were shaking with silent laughter. Lavellan was going to kill them, if he got out of this alive.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” she crooned, trailing a hand up his arm and across his shoulders. “Or would you prefer _vhenan_?”

Lavellan cleared his throat, impressed that he’d actually found his voice. “Lavellan is…fine. And you are?”

“You can call me Reva.” Her full lips curled into a smile. “Or whatever else you’d like…” She shifted closer. Her hair was very soft, and she smelled like oranges, sharp and sweet.

Lavellan bit his lip. “Listen, Reva, I really don’t –”

And then he saw Dorian, at the table opposite, watching him from over the rim of his wine glass. He caught Lavellan’s gaze and held it for just a second – but it was long enough for Lavellan to see the jealousy in his eyes.

Jealousy?

 _Dorian_ was jealous? Well, that was just…not fair. No, not fair at all. Dorian had no _right_ to be jealous, not after what he’d done, and with a rush of anger Lavellan made up his mind. Dorian was jealous? Then Lavellan might as well give him something to _really_ be jealous about.

“Alright, Reva,” he murmured, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. She looked surprised, but went easily, practically in his lap, bare thighs against his still-armored ones. Lavellan could feel Dorian’s eyes on him – though not just Dorian’s. Bull and Krem had stopped laughing. While the rest of the hall was full of laughter and music, the Chargers’ table had gotten rather quiet.

But Lavellan wasn’t done yet.

Reva looked at him through her lashes. “You feel tense, Inquisitor,” she crooned, sliding a hand down his body, resting dangerously close to his belt. Lavellan swallowed. “Perhaps I could…loosen you up a little?”

Dorian was staring. Half the hall was staring, probably.

Good.

“Perhaps you could,” he replied, and before he could be tempted to look at Dorian again, he cupped her face, drew her in, and kissed her deeply. She responded in kind at once, twining her arms around his neck and leaning forward until her barely-covered breasts brushed his chest. She tasted like she smelled, a strong citrus blossom on his tongue, but after the first press of lips all Lavellan could taste was his own bitterness. It felt all wrong, there was no stirring inside him at all though she was beautiful and certainly his type – Lavellan just felt cold all over, strangely detached.

But when he broke the kiss, he still found himself saying, “It may be wise to continue in my quarters,” and of course she smiled and agreed, climbing off of him only to cling to his side as he rose and walked down the rows of tables. He was followed by several hoots and cheers, a few shocked looks, and some confused mumblings.  
Reva giggled, hands dipping lower and lower.

When he glanced back at the hall before entering his chambers, Lavellan saw Dorian right away. He wasn’t staring any longer, and his wine glass was empty. He rose hurriedly from his chair, pushed past a few surprised dwarves, and left.

So did Lavellan, but not alone.

*

As soon as they were together in his quarters, Lavellan panicked. He still felt…nothing. No matter how much he looked at her, even when she had discarded her blouse, Dorian would not leave his head, stained on his thoughts like an afterimage, filling him with what could only be described as crippling guilt. Lavellan wanted to scream. Dorian had done this, so why couldn’t he? Why did he still feel so bound to the man who had betrayed him?

Reva swayed her hips from side to side, chest bare and illuminated by the golden lamplight as she approached him where he sat on the edge of the bed. “The Dragon Master, they call you,” she crooned, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger. “A very powerful man. Very striking, too…” She traced over the scar on his lips and without thinking he grabbed her wrist, hand shaking. She froze.

“Please don’t,” he whispered, slowly releasing her. Reva shrugged, breasts bouncing with the motion. Lavellan looked away. “And please…put your shirt back on.”  
That made her pout. “What, you don’t like them? Now, that’s a new one.”

Lavellan sighed. “No, no, they’re…lovely. Truly. But I just…I can’t…”

Reva folded her arms, which thankfully covered her up at least a little. “Are you a virgin?”

Lavellan chuckled quietly at that, some of the tension easing. “No. Very much not.”

“Then…?” She paused, looking doubtful. “Do you prefer the company of men?”

Lavellan glanced at her, conflicted. “No, it’s…I mean, I prefer the company of both. But I…”

Reva’s expression softened. “But you prefer the company of someone in particular.” She hesitated, then grabbed her blouse, finally slipping it back over her head. She regarded him with raised brows. “Then why did you bring me here in the first place?”

Lavellan put his head in his hands. “Because that someone found company with others preferable to being with me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Reva murmured, the bed dipping as she sat next to him. He opened his eyes, and she looked…sad. “Anyone in Thedas would be lucky to share their bed with you, don’t you think?”

“Apparently not,” Lavellan mumbled, “since he decided to get lucky somewhere else.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have you been with many people who were unfaithful?”

Reva nodded. “Many.”

“Why did they do it?” Lavellan whispered. “Do you know?”

She frowned. “I think…I think it is usually for one of two reasons. It is either because they think their partner is not good enough, or because they think _they_ are not good enough.” Reva patted his hand. “And in your case, Inquisitor, I would wager it is the latter.”

“No,” Lavellan replied. “He’s…perfect.”

Reva snorted. “Perfect? Sweetheart, not if he cheated. That is a flaw in itself, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lavellan’s shoulders slumped. “I _thought_ he was perfect.”

“They never quite are, are they?” she agreed, drawing her knees up under her. Reva looked at him, gaze lingering on his vallaslin. “You are Dalish, yes?”

He inclined his head. “I…assume you’re not?”

“Oh, no,” she chuckled. “Denerim, born and raised.”

“Denerim?”

“Ha, you thought Antiva, didn’t you? Rivain? Tevinter, even? I get that a lot. Many customers think I’m…exotic.” She wrinkled her nose. “But no. I’m just glad I managed to get out of that bloody alienage.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, uncertain of what to say.

Reva waved a hand airily. “Nevermind all that. What I’m trying to say is, do you know the stories, then – the stories about the gods? Our gods?”

He blinked. “I…yes. Of course. Why?”

“They say Dirthamen and Falon’Din were twin souls,” Reva murmured, taking his hand and tracing over all the lines in his palm, one by one. “I do not know the word for it in Elvhen, but…it is something which goes beyond friendship, beyond even blood. And it is said that everyone has a twin soul, somewhere…and that they are forever bound, completely and irrevocably, to each other. ‘Til death do they part.” She dropped his hand. His fingers curled. She looked at him intently. “Death and secrets…what a strange pair that would be.” Reva tilted her head. “Which one are you, I wonder?”

He thought of the shadow. _Death._ “I don’t know,” he muttered.

She smiled a little. “Something to think about, anyway. And who knows, Inquisitor? You may find your twin soul yet. Maybe, you’ve already found them. Personally, I don’t exactly have room for such romantic notions, but…perhaps the Inquisitor could benefit from a special someone at their side, yes?” She stood, turning to go. “It was a pleasure, sweetheart – though a different kind than I’m used to.”

“Wait, I –” Lavellan got to his feet, shaking his head. “I never even paid you!”

Reva grinned at him. “No wonder so many people adore you, sweetheart. We didn’t even _do_ anything that requires coin, though I appreciate the thought.”

“But I should at least…” His eyes fell upon the basket on his desk. “Ah…do you like tarts?” He crossed the room, taking one out of the basket and handing it to her.

Reva took a bite and positively beamed. “You do know how to please a woman, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan smiled back. “Don’t thank me. My friend Sera made them…she’s a very good cook. Among other things.”

Reva’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “How…interesting.”

“Mm. Have a good evening, Reva.”

“And you, _Lavellan_.” The door clicked shut behind her.

Sera was going to owe him so many baked goods.

*

In the days that followed, Lavellan and his advisors searched tirelessly for any sign of Corypheus, only to come up short time and time again. There was no sign of him, his soldiers, or his dragon – not in the Frostbacks, not in Ferelden, not in Orlais – not even in Antiva, Josephine’s relatives assured. Tevinter was a _probably_ not, since there was always something questionable going on there. Usually more than one something.

The only lead they had at all were whispers of Venatori forces gathering in the Hissing Wastes, a frigid desert about as far away as possible. Lavellan wasn’t exactly excited about going there, but there was only so much time he could spend dawdling around Skyhold and finishing up missions that weren’t halfway across the world.

One of the more exciting things in his normally quite mundane routine was taking Nira ‘out for a spin,’ as Frederic liked to call it. After Josephine’s excited gushing, Cullen’s reluctant admittance, and Leliana’s clever reasoning about how seeing Lavellan riding Nira over the battlefield had raised the soldiers’ morale immensely, Dagna was put to work designing a saddle – or at least something to ensure Lavellan didn’t topple off of her from thousands of feet up. Frederic agreed instantly – he said it would improve Nira’s muscle and bone growth and keep her as healthy as possible in the long run.

Initially, Lavellan was opposed to the whole thing – she was not a horse, nor did he even consider her a mount at all – but Nira had gotten bigger since their first flight and didn’t actually seem to mind his slight weight at all.

In fact, he could almost say she liked it. She certainly wasn’t a fan of the system of leather straps and silverite buckles that harnessed Lavellan securely (enough) to her back, but she purred and twirled in the air when he clung to her neck and told her she was the most wonderful creature he’d ever seen in lilting Elvhen syllables. And Skyhold was always abuzz with excitement as Nira took off, leaping from the ramparts into windy oblivion, sail-like wings lifting her higher and higher until Lavellan’s eyes stung and his hair grew damp with frost. The first time, flying had been pure terror – and it was still pure terror, but the terror of being free; the terror of taking a leap of faith, a journey into the unknown.

When Lavellan finally mustered up the courage to look down, he didn’t want to look away. The world below him was entirely unfamiliar…it didn’t even look real, more like a painting or a little lordling’s set of toys. Skyhold could have been built of pebbles, filled with ants who swung their flashing blades of grass, whirled in flower petal skirts, thought themselves powerful but looked so easy to crush from so far up.

And though the mountains still kept their majesty, high as they reached, they seemed easier to conquer, immaculately white and smooth, the distance hiding their treacherous pitfalls and deep ravines. The forests to the east looked like lush emerald mantles covered here and there by the smooth, slick mirrors of lakes and patchwork blankets of farmland. To the west, the land was a glittering expanse of snow, broken only by the dark remnants of civilization and the bloodred drops of tainted lyrium. And there, on the horizon, Lavellan thought he could just barely make out the spires of Val Royeaux, and the dark green ribbon of the Wilds.

If there was any way to find Corypheus quickly, this would be it – Lavellan’s eyes could see more than they ever had before. But though he looked every time they took flight for the black wings of a blighted dragon and the vengeful glare of a magister’s gaze, he was always forced to admit defeat. Wherever Corypheus was hiding, it was not somewhere he could see, even from the heavens.

Their flights were often rather short, never longer than an hour – and at first Lavellan had feared Nira would not dive back down towards Skyhold at his quiet command when he felt unable to bear the dizzying height anymore. But he needn’t have worried – like the ravens, she knew where her home was, and it was to her home she would always return.

After their fourth or fifth flight, Lavellan was unbuckling the straps from Nira’s back on the ramparts when a familiar voice said, “So, horses are too good for you now, I suppose?”

Lavellan froze. He’d managed to avoid Dorian for a whole two weeks – apparently it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. “I still ride horses,” he replied quietly, sliding the rest of the straps off and over Nira’s foreleg. She had gone still, too, head turned towards him and Dorian, ears flicking forward.

Lavellan turned, and ignored the way his chest twinged when he looked Dorian in the eyes. “Why are you here?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice level. “To scold me some more?”

“Oh, what, I’m not even allowed to speak to you now?” Dorian snapped. His skin looked paler than usual, wan and yellowed in the late afternoon sunlight. “Is that an order, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan folded his arms. “You haven’t been arrested yet, have you?”

Dorian snorted, telltale heat flickering faintly in the air. “I’d like to see you try.”

“There are fifty-two Templars within these walls, Altus,” Lavellan said lightly. “And I command every single one of them. The odds are not in your favor.”

“Altus?” Dorian raised an eyebrow, smiling thinly. “We’re not even on a first name basis anymore, _Echo_?”

“Dorian, what do you want from me?” Lavellan asked, shaking his head.

“I wanted to say hello,” Dorian retorted, frowning slightly. “Friends do that, right?”

“We’re not friends,” Lavellan whispered.

He did not miss the way Dorian flinched. “And why not? One little fight and –”

“Little fight?!” Lavellan exclaimed. “You pinned me to a wall!”

“You never complained when I pinned you before.”

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Nira snarled and moved forward, head lowered to roughly the height of a human man, eyes fixed on Dorian. Her jaws opened, revealing rows of very, very sharp teeth. It was not an idle threat. “No,” Lavellan murmured, “but Nira certainly did. And I think you’ll find her bites hurt a lot more now.”

“Lavellan…” Dorian whispered, “I just want –”

“I don’t care what you want,” Lavellan breathed, his voice breaking. “You never cared what I wanted, so I think that’s fair.”

Dorian swallowed, brow lowering. He looked like he was in pain. Lavellan could relate. “No, that’s not…I did care, truly, I still care –”

“Then why did you do it?” Lavellan stepped closer, trembling. “If you cared about me, why would you do that?”

Dorian closed his eyes, bowing his head. “It’s not that simple,” he murmured. “None of this is simple. But…but know that I never intended to hurt you, Inquisitor.” Nira growled, her shadow casting over Dorian. “And I never intended for you to hate me, either.”

Lavellan exhaled shakily. “I don’t hate you,” he told Dorian. “I don’t think I ever could, even if perhaps I should.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you did,” Dorian said, still looking away. “For both of us.” Then he turned and left with a rustle of robes and a single spark in his wake, a golden point of light that fell softly through the air like a dying firefly. Lavellan caught it on his fingertip, so numb he hardly felt the sting of its burn. For he’d already been burnt, as often happens after one spends too much time playing with fire.

The spark extinguished against his skin, turning into nothing more than blackened ash, swept away all too easily by the hungry wind.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit of a filler chapter, but there will be action - LOTS of action eek - in the next one. get ready.  
> and thank you for 200+ kudos. <3333 you're all the best. also, check out the new cover art Nioell made for the story in all its full-sized glory: http://orig00.deviantart.net/4dde/f/2015/290/f/c/nira_by_nioell-d9de6u8.png
> 
> I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that this story will have probably 18-20 chapters total. I finally figured out the ending I want to go with, which is definitely a happier/nicer one. The other ending I was considering would have been brutal and not happy (at all), but it would have left room for a sequel. Sadly, I don't think I'll have time for a sequel anytime soon, and I wouldn't want to leave you all on that terrible cliffhanger.  
> So! Sacrifices must be made; hopefully you understand. Enjoy.

“Inquisitor?!”

Lavellan was sitting atop Nira’s tower responding to a rather cross, barely legible letter about Hawke being an irresponsible bastard from a very angry someone named Fenris when Cassandra’s loud voice startled him so badly he nearly fell off the roof. As it was, he dropped half the inkwell on the parchment, and furrowed his brow as he watched it obliterate his carefully penned, polite reply. He sighed and peered down at the Seeker. She looked a bit panicked.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked.

“Inquisitor…why are you on the roof? How did you even get on the roof in the first place?”

Lavellan rolled his eyes, wiggling his toes. (No, he was not wearing shoes. It was quite freeing.) “I’ve been climbing trees since I could walk, Cassandra. A stone tower is hardly a challenge.”

Cassandra blinked, looking mildly horrified. He sometimes forgot she was technically royalty. “I…see. Well, if at all possible, could you come down without breaking anything? I…I have something for you.”

Lavellan sighed again, tucking the ruined letter into his pocket and going to the roof’s edge. “What is it?”

Cassandra looked at him steadily, her jaw set. “It is…from your clan, Inquisitor. The memorial we constructed there was completed a week or so ago, but our soldiers only returned today. They found something in the ruins of the camp.” She bit her lip, reaching into her cloak and pulling out something small and pale. “It’s for you.”

Lavellan stared at her, then climbed down faster than was perhaps safe, scraping his knee as he leapt off and hardly caring. He took the offered object quickly, hands shaking so much he had to take a deep breath and squeeze his eyes shut before he could really look at it.

When he did, he saw it was not one object, but two – a piece of crumpled parchment wrapped around a small, wooden pendant on a thin cord. He held the pendant tightly in his other hand while reading the scribbled words on the parchment in his head, heart pounding.

_my dearest echo,  
we thought you lost, but falon’din returned you to us – no, not to us, but to the shemlen, and they made you their leader for the new mark you bear. we do not yet understand your fate, but we will try to. just know that we love you, no matter what, da’vhenan. the halla are restless and the sun is low – they are coming now to kill us all. i still believe you tried to help us, my son. i still believe you have not forgotten us – please, do not forget us. we love you, i love you, ar lath ma, forever, always, _

The letter ended there, with a dark, rusty spot of blood. Lavellan’s throat grew tight. “Mamae,” he whispered, the word carried away by the wind. He slowly opened his other palm, revealing the pendant on the cord. Tears stung at his eyes.

It was a tiny halla carved from white ash, its horns immaculately curved and detailed, long legs in mid-stride. His father was the only one in the clan who could have made something like it, and when Lavellan turned the pendant over he found a small _E_ carved into its smooth surface. His father had been a man of few words, but this was enough. It was more than enough.

“What is it?” Cassandra asked carefully, her expression full of concern.

Lavellan stroked the halla’s horns before slipping the cord over his head. It fell against his chest beside the message crystal. “The Conclave was…it was the final part of my coming of age ceremony,” he explained quietly. “When I returned, I was to be named a full-fledged warrior of the clan. And every warrior carried some…some token for luck and guidance, often one relating to the god of their vallaslin.”

Cassandra frowned, understanding. “This is your token.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “It is the symbol of Ghilan’nain, the goddess of my vallaslin. My father must have been waiting to give it to me…”

“What is she the goddess of?”

Lavellan looked at her with surprise. The Seeker had never really expressed interest in anything outside of her beloved Maker before. “I…she is the Mother of the Halla, and the guardian of the People. It is said, in legend, that she was one of us before she became a goddess. Almost like Andraste, I suppose.”

Cassandra tilted her head. “Was she a martyr, like Andraste?”

Lavellan nodded. “In a way. She was bound and blinded by a hunter, and would have died if the goddess Andruil had not saved her by turning her into the first halla, and later the youngest goddess.”

“She…became a deer?”

Lavellan sighed. “The halla are not deer. They’re…more than that. It’s hard to explain. But no, she did not. She could take many forms, apparently. But I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen her.”

“I have never seen the Maker,” Cassandra murmured. “Just because things remain unseen does not mean they are not real, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan managed a smile, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Thank you,” he said.

The pendant was cold against his heart.

*

With winter drawing steadily closer, Lavellan really should have been more aware of the weather while taking Nira on flights. Unfortunately, he was not, and he only saw the fast-approaching storm when they were already nearing the clouds. Huge, gray clouds were rolling in from the south, dark, swollen bellies filled to bursting. Nira wheeled lazily, her ears twitching at the sound of distant thunder.

Lavellan shifted on her back, feeling the air grow colder than before, swallowing nervously. Skyhold was a ways away – he could see its towers still, but there were a couple large mountains in between them and the stronghold. He patted Nira’s neck. “Alright, ara isenatha,” he told her, nearly having to shout over the wind. “Time to go home.”

Nira’s growl startled him.

“Nira?” he said, stroking her horns worriedly. “We need to go back to Skyhold. Now.”

She whined, and twisted slightly, her wings struggling to keep her body level, her tail lashing in the air as the golden fins on her tail caught the breeze, trying in vain to act as a sort of rudder. Her wings flapped instead of soared – she was losing her warm updraft. Lavellan’s breath caught. Nira’s chest was heaving, smoke curling from her mouth as she continued to fight against the wind.

“Down,” Lavellan snapped, growing frantic, tugging on the straps around her neck. “Now!”

In a panicky attempt to obey, Nira lost her battle against the wind as she attempted to dive. Her right side was hit by a frigid gust of air that made Lavellan’s teeth chatter, and she flapped harder, managing to just barely stop their downward spiral towards the mountains.

“Nira?” Lavellan whispered, clutching her neck and slowly gazing up at the dark clouds, which were now directly above them. “Nira…”

Thunder boomed overhead deafeningly, and five seconds later the torrential downpour of stinging ice began. One moment the air was cautiously clear, the next, Lavellan was blinded by white. Nira made a sound akin to a scream, still fighting to gain altitude, her brilliant flames breaking through the blizzard for a few seconds, steam billowing around them before the fire was replaced by more and more snow. Her powerful body writhed uselessly under Lavellan as she failed, wings seizing up from cold and exertion, scales growing slick with snow that melted at her warmth.

Lavellan did not trust the straps holding him anymore; he clung to Nira with numb fingers, ice encrusting his lashes and lips, skin stiff and cold. No, cold didn’t even begin to describe it. He tried to focus on Nira’s fire, still burning inside of her, for he had no fire in him and he needed one now, urgently.

Nira was distressed and Lavellan was petrified, the two of them trapped in a swirling tempest with no escape in sight; with nothing in sight at all. Skyhold was gone, erased by the whiteness, and Lavellan did not even know where the mountains had gone. Nira’s screeches echoed, so he knew they must still be somewhere in the Frostbacks, but the wind was tossing them around like a plaything, so they could be miles off-course by now.

Lavellan didn’t know how long it lasted; he only knew that eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of howling gales, pounding ice, and a desperate dragon fighting the deadly pair, the dragon surrendered, her wings gave out, and they dropped like a stone.

No. More like a boulder. A huge, burning boulder.

Lavellan was too weak to even scream, the straps the only things keeping him from falling to a certain death. But Nira’s fatigue did not erase her will to live, thankfully, and as they neared the expanse of white that had to be a snowy mountainside, her wings extended fully, catching freezing air, cushioning their clumsy fall into the deep snow. The blizzard continued around them, the winds forcing Nira back at first as she tried to walk through the snow. Lavellan did not know where she intended to go – she couldn’t very well walk all the way back to Skyhold.

There was a minute or two when Nira simply stopped, and Lavellan thought she might just collapse here as he was about to, and the storm would cover them up like they’d never existed. But then, orange light illuminated the air, and Lavellan realized with shock that Nira was burning her way through the snow, making a clear path towards…his eyes narrowed, bleary with tiny icicles. There was a dark splotch several hundred feet up that looked very much like a cave.

Nira’s flames melted all the snow, but it was obvious that she couldn’t keep it up forever. Her legs wobbled, her wings dragged, and her flames were nearly gone by the time they reached the dark spot that was, in fact, a cave. Then, she did collapse, almost crushing Lavellan against the rocky ground.

Shivering violently, Lavellan forced his aching, bluish hands to move, nearly crying out in pain when they finally obeyed, fumbling to undo the buckles of the straps. When he was finally free, he tumbled limply to the stone beside Nira, his ears, face, and legs completely numb. He was still cold, so cold, but he felt like he could fall asleep right here…

Nira’s shadow fell over him, and she shuffled closer, the shock of her warm scales on his frozen skin the worst agony he’d ever felt. Lavellan whimpered in protest, but she pressed against him fully, shielding him against the buffeting wind with her neck, one wing falling over him, encasing him fully in her coils. The pain was fading, sensation dimly returning to his limbs, but the exhaustion was there to stay. Nira’s body was already rumbling with snores, and it was all too easy for him to follow her lead.

*

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…it’s almost as though you _want_ to die, da’len!” the shadow purred, twisting around him. Lavellan frowned, folding his arms and looking around. They were in…a forest of some sort? He couldn’t be sure.

“I don’t want to die,” he replied. “But you said I would. When, exactly, is that going to happen?”

“So eager,” it chuckled. “It will happen…eventually.”

Lavellan scoffed. “That’s not an answer.”

The shadow paused, black tendrils bleeding into the air around it. “On the third night,” it murmured, turning away. “In a land of sand and ruin…”

Lavellan faltered. “How do you know that? And what does that mean, exactly?”

The shadow sounded troubled. “It is…uncertain…the lines are…blurred…I cannot…I cannot see –”

A flash of white light overtook the dark forest. When Lavellan opened his eyes again, it was still a forest, but lighter and barely visible. And in the shadow’s place stood something…else. It was silvery and translucent, and looked very much like his dead sister, but he’d long since learned not to trust any such illusions.

“Who are you?” he snapped, taking a step backwards. “And what did you do with…” Lavellan trailed off. He was not sure what to call the shadow.

“He is gone, for now,” his Not-Sister replied, voice faint and lilting, barely audible. “But he will return. We have little time.”

“Why do you look like Enya?” he asked warily. “Are you a demon?”

“I took a form that makes you comfortable, or so I thought,” she murmured. “And no, I am no demon. Is that what you think he is? The other?”

The other? Lavellan eyed her, uncertain of what to believe. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Is he?”

“Almost,” she whispered. “If he were a demon, he would be pride. And if he were a demon, the world would burn. That is what he wants – for this world to burn.”

“Why?” Lavellan asked, shaking his head. “He claims to be my friend.”

The imitation of his sister flickered. “He is no one’s friend but his own,” she hissed. “He wants only to use you to achieve his own ends, as he has used so many others.”

“Use me?” Lavellan bit his lip. “How?”

But she hesitated. “I…”

“How does he want to use me?” Lavellan pressed, bewildered and more than a little unsettled.

“Do not die,” she said, eyes wide and fearful. “Do not let him catch you –”

Then the light faded, smoothly replaced once more by the dark forest. But instead of the shadow, Dorian stood, idly watching him from under hooded eyes, smirking. Lavellan swallowed. “I know it’s you,” he muttered. “No need to play stupid games.”

Not-Dorian smiled, oddly cold and sharp. “Ah, but games are so much _fun_ , Inquisitor.” He stepped forward, Lavellan stepped back.

“Whatever you think you’re doing, stop it,” Lavellan growled, ears going back as Not-Dorian continued to advance.

“Don’t you want to have fun with me?” he crooned, and then his fingers were tilting Lavellan’s chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes. They were wrong – too flat, too empty, with an edge to his gaze that suggested if he got too close, Lavellan would most certainly get cut. Badly.

“No,” Lavellan whispered, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. “Don’t _touch_ me, you’re not him –”

“Ooh,” Not-Dorian said, lip curling, brow lowering. “So you _do_ want him to touch you, even still. You still want him – all of him, even the parts he is unwilling to give. What would you do for him, I wonder?” He chuckled darkly. “Do even you know?”

“Get away,” Lavellan retorted, pushing at his chest – but his hands went straight through, though the heavy weight pinning him was very much corporeal. His eyes widened. “Stop –”

“Mm, no,” Not-Dorian said smugly. “It’s time to wake up, Inquisitor.” Then his hands closed around Lavellan’s throat, squeezing too tight – Lavellan thrashed and clawed blindly at him, panic filling him as black spots filled his vision, airway cut off, breath all gone, chest hollow and heaving and hurting and –

_“Quick, someone get him dry, he’s soaked to the bone, I need healers right the fuck now –”_

_“—idiot would’ve lost a leg if not for that dragon; it’s practically a furnace –”_

_“Hang on, Inquisitor, that’s it, keep breathing, in and out, you’re safe now –”_

_“Echo? Please…please don’t leave me…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”_

*

He woke up in bed. The owl was still on the ceiling. “Hello,” he said to it, voice creaky and soft. He coughed, sitting up and yawning, letting out a surprised squeak when he saw Varric sitting at his desk, writing something.

Varric looked up, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, good. The hero lives. Thanks. Would’ve been a pretty shitty ending if you died in a snowstorm, Freckles.”

Lavellan blinked, rubbing his eyes. “I. Uh. Sorry? You’re…welcome?” Then he frowned. “How…how did I get here? Where’s Nira?”

Varric snorted. “If not for your dragon, you probably would’ve died at least three times already. She carried you all the way here, since you were out like a light and borderline delusional – and she’s already back on her feet again. Maybe she’s the real hero in this story.”

“ _This Shit is Weird: The High Dragon Nira Story_?” Lavellan suggested.

Varric chuckled. “Now I know why we keep you around, Freckles.”

Lavellan nodded to his quill. “What’re you writing? Your next bestseller? In my bedroom? I’m honored, Varric.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Sadly, nothing so impressive. I’m replying to Fenris’s letter, because if that guy doesn’t get an answer he’ll probably march all the way to Skyhold and make an attempt on your life. And I think you’re managing just fine with that bit as it is.”

“It wasn’t my fault that a giant storm decided to knock Nira out of the sky,” Lavellan mumbled.

“A certain Tevinter mage we know might disagree with that,” Varric said casually, dipping his quill in ink.

“The _only_ Tevinter mage we know, you mean?” Lavellan corrected. “Let me guess. Dorian ranted to anyone who would listen about how reckless and suicidal I am, then proceeded to sleep with half the army? Again?”

Varric pursed his lips. “Not exactly. There was a lot less ranting and a lot more drinking involved.”

Lavellan shook his head. “He always drinks.”

“Not like this,” Varric said. “Sparkler was miserable for the three days you were out. And believe it or not, no, he didn’t sleep with anybody. I don’t think he slept at all. Passed out, more like.”

Lavellan sucked in a sharp breath. “Three days?!”

Varric nodded grimly. “The Seeker wouldn’t let him see you, and Sera threatened to put earwigs in his ale if he tried, so he probably still thinks you’re on the verge of death.” He shrugged. “Might still be in the tavern, actually.”

Lavellan was halfway out of bed before he could stop himself.

“You should talk to him,” Varric added.

Lavellan glowered, starting to get back under the sheets. “You know what he did –”

“Listen, Freckles. I don’t care what happened, alright? Sparkler cares about you, kind of a scary amount, to be honest. And I don’t think you hate the guy, let’s just say that. If you wanted to punish him for whatever you think he did – done, pretty sure you did a fine job. Poor kid’s been beating himself up ever since you dumped him, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Lavellan hadn’t. He bit his lip.

“You’re not a bad guy, Inquisitor. But pretending he doesn’t mean anything to you is…pretty damn cruel, don’t you think?” Varric was alarmingly persuasive when he wanted to be.

“What do you suggest, oh wise dwarf?” Lavellan relented.

“Talk to him, make sure he’s not gonna kill himself via alcohol poisoning, and invite him to go with you to the Hissing Wastes.”

Lavellan gaped. “What?! No! I’m not _traveling_ with him –”

“Just try it, Freckles,” Varric pushed. “C’mon. Do it for me. For the severe lack of romance in the Inquisition story.”

Lavellan heaved a very big sigh. “Fine,” he grumbled, getting out of bed fully, glad to see he was already decently dressed. He did not particularly want to have to change in front of Varric. “If this goes horribly wrong,” he warned, “I’m blaming you.”

“Noted,” Varric said cheerfully, scribbling away.

*

Sure enough, Lavellan found Dorian in the tavern. And sure enough, he was slumped back in his chair, clutching a mug of something in a white-knuckled grip. He nearly dropped it when he caught sight of Lavellan, his gaze hazy and confused. Lavellan sighed and sat next to him. Dorian looked mildly…afraid.

“You’re a mess,” Lavellan remarked.

Dorian swiped a hand across his eyes, shaking his head. “I thought…that you were going to…” He exhaled unsteadily.

“I’m not,” Lavellan assured. “Not yet, anyway. Alright? So don’t drink yourself to death, please.”

Dorian grimaced. “And why not? It’s not as if you’d care.”

“I care,” Lavellan said quietly. “And if you die, I can’t take you along to the Hissing Wastes.”

Dorian did drop the mug then. It spilled a pitifully small amount of amber liquid on the floorboards at their feet. He coughed. “Who set you up to this?” Dorian snapped. “Was it Varric? It was Varric, wasn’t it?”

Lavellan sniffed. “Yes. So, do you want to come, or not?”

Dorian glared. “Do _you_ actually want me to?”

Lavellan glared right back. “As long as you keep your hands to yourself,” he retorted.

Dorian threw up his hands. “Oh, and I suppose pinning you to the sand dunes is out of the question?”

“Very much so,” Lavellan gritted out.

They glared at each other for five more seconds before Dorian folded his arms and said, “Fine.”

“You get to share a tent with Bull,” Lavellan added.

Dorian huffed, though there was hurt in his eyes. “As long as it’s not with you.”

*

The long journey to the Wastes had a very different atmosphere than all their previous expeditions together. Nira flew low overhead as Lavellan led the way on Emily, with Bull and Cassandra flanking and Dorian trailing behind. Lavellan wished he could ride Nira to avoid the tension on the ground altogether, but alas she was carrying their supplies, and there was no room on her back for an elf to safely perch.

True to his word, Lavellan shared a tent with Cassandra, forcing Dorian to share with Bull. Lavellan was half-terrified that one night he would hear Dorian taking up the offer Bull had given him long ago, but the only thing he ever heard from their tent was irritated cursing in Tevene and Qunlat followed by long periods of sulking silence. In Lavellan’s tent, there was a similar silence. Cassandra was worried about him – he often caught her giving him strange, sad looks – but she never elaborated as to why. Nira slept outside, guarding the camp and growling at Dorian whenever he came too close.

The breaking point was at Val Firmin on Lake Celestine, near the western edge of the Dales. Lavellan was already mourning the soon-to-be lack of trees, so he was in a rather sour mood. Dorian was seemingly always in a sour mood, and Bull was as exasperated as Cassandra about the whole thing.

They’d been traveling for about a week, so they were all very dusty and travel-worn – and a bath was very much overdue. The crystalline waters of Celestine were all too tempting, and Bull scouted out a sheltered area along the bank, mostly hidden by a grove of tall oaks. Nira flew off as soon as the supplies were unpacked, presumably to investigate how tasty the fish in the lake were.

Cassandra went to bathe first, steadfastly denying Bull’s wheedling to ‘join the boys’ and was actually smiling when she emerged from the trees, rebraiding her damp hair and pulling on the last of her armor.

“It is lovely,” she told Lavellan. “Please at least _try_ to enjoy yourself, Inquisitor.”

He sighed and made no promises.

The water _was_ lovely, though – clear, cool, and full of tiny silver fishes that darted around his ankles, along with the occasional tadpole. Stripped down to his smalls, he rolled to float lazily on his back in the deeper water, watching the white and gray birds wheel and soar in the power blue sky.

His quiet reverie was interrupted by loud splashing in the shallows, and he turned his head quizzically, rolling his eyes when he saw Bull. The Qunari hadn’t bothered with smalls – unsurprising, as he was not at all small in any sense of the word. Lavellan (unlike Dorian and Cassandra) wasn’t particularly embarrassed by seeing the other party members naked. He’d seen most of his clan’s hunters naked, after all, and had become rather indifferent about the whole thing. Whereas Cassandra wanted nothing to do with it and Dorian thought their casual undressing was ‘perfectly barbaric’ (though he wasn’t exactly complaining).

Normally, Lavellan wouldn’t have kept the smalls on. But Dorian was there, and…it was a much-needed barrier. He felt uncharacteristically uncomfortable at the thought of being without them. Bull, however, waded over to where he was floating, completely shameless. “Hey, boss,” he said, poking Lavellan’s shoulder. “Most’ve the bruises are gone, huh?”

Lavellan shrugged. The majority had faded, with only a few yellowish splotches remaining. “You sound disappointed.”

Bull laughed. “Nah. ‘Spose it’s a good thing. It means I didn’t break you.”

Lavellan looked back up at the sky, scoffing. “Break me? C’mon, Bull – you’re no giant. And even giants can’t quite break me.”

They winced in unison, remembering the unfortunate time they’d been swarmed by three giants in the Emerald Graves and one of them had gotten ahold of Lavellan, shaking him and chucking him halfway across the damn forest. He’d ended up with a gash on his forehead, a sprained leg, and dizziness that lasted a week or two. Could’ve been worse, though.

“You need to stop testing that theory, boss,” Bull said fondly. “Someday you might actually be proven wrong, y’know.”

“Me, wrong?” Lavellan grinned. “Impossible.”

Someone cleared their throat loudly. Lavellan didn’t have to look to know it was Dorian. He tensed. Bull gave him a look. “Boss, just play nice for five minutes, okay?”

“I think I’ll just stay over here,” Lavellan grumbled, submerging everything from his nose down. Dorian was gloriously and insufferably bare, bronze skin shining in the sunlight. He cupped his hands, pouring the water his palms collected over his head and chest. The water dripped down his body in a way that made Lavellan want to inhale his own tongue. Bull stood between them, arms folded.

Still, Dorian said nothing, just continued to put on a damn show like he always did. Lavellan was silently fuming. He didn’t even know why it made him so mad – no, he did know, it was because it felt like Dorian was almost mocking him, showing him what he wanted so badly but could never have again. Finally, Bull coughed and said, “So, the two of you aren’t fucking anymore, I take it.”

Dorian froze. Lavellan’s ears twitched irritably. “It’s complicated,” Dorian replied with a sniff.

Lavellan glowered, raising his head up out of the water. “It’s really not,” he muttered. “He decided he’d rather fuck other people while drinking himself to the Void and back.”

Bull frowned at him. “That’s kinda messed up, Dorian.”

“It’s _complicated_ ,” Dorian repeated, jaw working, and Lavellan couldn’t do it anymore.

“Is it?!” he exclaimed, striding towards him, sending ripples outwards and scaring all the fish away. “Then why don’t you explain it to me? Why don’t you try to justify why you led me on only to throw me away to find something new and pretty enough for you?!” Lavellan stood a mere three feet from him, trembling with indignation.

“You wouldn’t understand!” Dorian snapped, throwing up his hands. “It was for the best –”

“For the best!” Lavellan shook his head, smiling bitterly. “How can you say that when you _ruined_ everything –”

“Don’t act as if you haven’t already gotten over it!” Dorian hissed. “At least I haven’t been fucking random whores who sit on my lap!”

Lavellan’s eyes flashed. “At least I’m not a whore myself!”

Dorian snarled and moved forward and Lavellan lashed out, knocking him off-balance, sending them both tumbling with a huge splash into the shallows, Lavellan trapped under him. Water blurred his vision, filling his mouth and making him choke, and in an instant he remembered the dream, the shadow in Dorian’s form strangling the life out of him, and he cried out, bubbles filling the water as he clawed and writhed desperately, blood roaring in his ears. His throat burned, his head spun.

Dorian let go abruptly after a few disoriented seconds, scrambling to his feet, and strong arms lifted Lavellan out of the lake. Lavellan spat water out, angrier than before, gasping and stumbling away from Bull, shaking his head when the Qunari reached out anxiously to steady him. Dorian, sopping wet and shocked, stared at him. “Lavellan, I –”

Lavellan, still breathing heavily, stalked out onto the shore, heart pounding. Fear filled him, but he didn’t know what to say; didn’t know how to explain his sudden helpless terror. _I’m going to die_ , he thought with horrified realization, but it was the uncertainty that frightened him – he did not know when, or how, or _why_ – all he had was the confusing riddle the shadow had given him.

Then it struck him. It was so obvious. _On the third night, in a land of sand and ruin._ On the third night in the Hissing Wastes, a land of endless dunes and ancient dwarven tombs…he was apparently going to die, somehow, some way. His breath came out in panicked bursts and he leaned heavily against the nearest tree. Maybe…maybe the shadow was simply lying to him. He was the Inquisitor, after all. He had a world to save. He couldn’t _die_.

But Lavellan, remembering Dorian’s hands around his neck, was all too aware of his own mortality.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you don't hate me yet, you will after this chapter. Or the next one.  
> It's a series of unfortunate events that they've gotten themselves into! Hey, 'stupid boys' is one of the tags, after all. I warned you.
> 
> On a brighter note, thank you for 200+ kudos and 100+ subscriptions! I can't believe it.   
> <3 keep it comin'.

When they reached the Wastes, Cassandra and Bull very quickly devised a terrible, awful plan.

“We’re going to split up,” Cassandra announced amidst the dozen Venatori corpses strewn about the sandy campsite. Following Scout Harding’s advice, they’d just thoroughly ransacked it, uncovering a map and several notes about an intriguing Tomb of Fairel which the Venatori apparently hoped to find. Of course, that just wouldn’t do – they’d have to reach the Tomb before the Venatori could get ahold of whatever was in there.

Problem was…the Wastes were huge. Vast. Hard to find a tiny tomb in. So unfortunately, Bull and Cassandra’s terrible, awful plan had some logic to it. But mostly it was just plain evil. “We’re going to split up into two groups,” Cassandra continued, brows furrowed and determined. “Bull and I will explore the southern and western parts, and the Inquisitor and Dorian will explore the –”

“Oh, no,” Dorian interrupted. “Cassandra, you have the right idea about splitting up to cover more area, but I believe you need to reconsider your choice of group members, don’t you think?”

“Nope,” Bull said. “The groups are great. Plus, you guys will have Nira if you need melee support.”

Nira growled. Lavellan folded his arms. “Please tell me the two of you are joking.”

“We are very serious, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said. “We’ve given…much thought to this.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Lavellan muttered.

Bull shrugged. “Well, that’s how it’s gonna be. Three to two, you’re outnumbered.”

“Three to…there’s only four people in this party!” Dorian exclaimed. Nira rumbled. “Oh, for…she’s an illiterate reptile! She has no way of expressing her opinion!”

“Exactly. So I’m counting her in our favor,” Bull said. Nira glowered at him, snorting smoke.

“I don’t think that’s how democracy works,” Dorian snapped. “And this isn’t even a democracy! Lavellan, you can overrule them, can’t you?”

“I could,” Lavellan replied, narrowing his eyes at Cassandra. Her expression was borderline pleading. He knew exactly what she and Bull were trying to do, and…oh, he might as well indulge them. “But I’m not going to.”

“What?!” Dorian squawked.

“It’s a decent plan,” Lavellan said dully. “Cassandra and Bull are strong warriors; they can hold their own without us. And with Nira, we’re a force to be reckoned with. I can use my daggers too, if need be.”

“See, you’ve still got some sense left, boss!” Bull said with a grin. “So you and Dorian can cover the north and eastern regions, and we can all meet up right back here in, say…five days?”

Lavellan’s stomach flipped. _On the third night…_

“We don’t have to do this, Inquisitor,” Cassandra murmured, misinterpreting his worry. “We could stay together to search for the Tomb, if you’d prefer –”

“No, that would take even longer,” Lavellan replied firmly. He nodded at Bull and Cassandra. “Stay out of trouble, alright?”

“You too, boss. Don’t kill him, Dorian.”

“Good luck, Inquisitor.” Cassandra smiled slightly. “Stay safe.”

Dorian threw up his hands. “Ugh,” he said.

Nira blew smoke into his face.

*

Lavellan shot a halfhearted glare over his shoulder at Cassandra as they went their separate ways, but didn’t put up much of a fight compared to Dorian. The irritated mage hunched his shoulders, pouted, and dragged his feet like a bratty toddler, and though he didn’t full-on argue with Lavellan he maintained a decidedly passive-aggressive attitude for the first day or so.

He found it easier than ever to imagine Dorian as the spoiled only son of an affluent magister – whining whenever he didn’t get exactly what he wanted, adorned with the finest jewels and gold since infancy, bragging freely about his natural talents, with a dozen slaves at his beck and call. It wasn’t a flattering light to see him in, and it just made Lavellan even unhappier – he should’ve realized from the beginning that the two of them were too different, too antagonistic to ever truly work out.

Lavellan hadn’t even _seen_ gold or jewels until he was ten, when human traders who didn’t want to kill his clan, for once, gifted the Keeper with a pair of glittering earrings and a heavy opal necklace in exchange for some weapons. Creators, he’d nearly starved in the winter of his seventh year, reduced to eating tree bark to stay alive; while Dorian had surely been a plump little mageling who was given more food in a single meal than Lavellan had ever known existed. Dorian had lived with slaves as a normal part of his life; Lavellan had lived in fear that the scary shemlen would come in the night for him and everyone he loved to take their lives away and make them someone else’s. Dorian could kill him with a single snap of his fingers. Lavellan wouldn’t stand a chance against his flames.

And yet it had been so easy to ignore all of that before; it had been so easy to forget those dark stains when Dorian held him close and whispered empty promises that had felt so _full_ in his ear. Because Lavellan had never wanted anything so badly before, and we always want what we simply cannot have. Not anymore, anyway.

Lavellan actually enjoyed the skirmishes they ran into as they traveled – while Dorian was slinging spells and Lavellan was leaping and firing and stabbing, that underlying rawness, those uncomfortable emotions…they were pushed away in favor of survival. None of that mattered when Lavellan was slashing through the breastplate of a Red Templar as Dorian paralyzed him in a roiling cage of static. It didn’t matter when Lavellan barely dodged Venatori flashfire, the cool security of a barrier washing over him in the next second, or when Lavellan sent an arrow straight into the skull of a Shadow who tried to sneak up on Dorian, red lyrium blades far too close for comfort.

Most of all, it didn’t matter when blazing dragonfire roared past them, setting all of Lavellan’s senses on alert, adrenaline coursing through him as Nira tossed enemies into the air like ragdolls, blood staining her teeth, screams filling the air. Sometimes, there was nothing for Lavellan and Dorian to do except watch, or risk being burnt to a crisp themselves.

As Nira was setting alight all the remaining Venatori during the last battle before they set up camp, Dorian said quietly, “Raw, primal force. I see it in her now…and I wonder if she can truly control it.”

Lavellan turned to him, brow furrowed. The fire reflected in Dorian’s cool eyes, a shining, wild light destroying everything in its path. “She wouldn’t hurt us,” he replied.  
Dorian shook his head. “She is a high dragon,” he muttered, “and you would be a fool to forget it. Didn’t you say that, once?”

“A long time ago,” Lavellan admitted. “Things were different then.”

“Yes,” Dorian agreed. “They were.”

That night, the first night, they set up the tent in silence, and after a tense, hardly filling dinner, climbed into their bedrolls without a word. Lavellan listened to the scuffling, creaking sounds of Nira curling up outside, taking comfort in the fact that she would guard them as they slept in this blasted, barren desert. He shivered, pulling the blanket closer – it was surprisingly cold at night here, and Lavellan tried valiantly not to think about how warm Dorian was. He knew from experience, after all.

There was an odd sound, and after a few seconds he realized it was Dorian’s teeth chattering. Lavellan huffed out a slightly annoyed breath and Dorian shifted. “I know you were in a blizzard and pre-hypothermic, but don’t even try to tell me you don’t think it’s freezing here,” he mumbled.

Lavellan sighed. “It’s freezing,” he said flatly. “I feel like my ears are going to fall off,” he added.

Dorian chuckled, and for once it didn’t sound completely mocking. “Aw, poor thing.” Then the fabric rustled and Lavellan went still as Dorian reached out, warm fingertips touching the curved end of his ear softly. Lavellan flushed, quivering, torn between flinching away and rolling over and kissing him hard enough to make them both forget all about the cold.

But Dorian drew back hastily before he could do either of those things, a muttered apology falling from his lips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…I shouldn’t have…”

Lavellan exhaled unsteadily, hiding his face in the pillow. “It’s fine,” he replied quickly. “They’re just…sensitive.” His face was definitely bright red by now, heat pooling in his belly. Fenedhis, of all the things…

“…I see.” Dorian sounded like he wanted Lavellan to explain that a bit further, which he was _not_ going to do, thank you very much. But…at least he wasn’t cold anymore, especially when Dorian pressed his palm to the blankets, sending a mild heat spell through them and sighing with definite satisfaction. “Better?”

Lavellan nodded, curling up tighter. “Yes,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Dorian was going to say something; Lavellan just knew he was, but then the breath whistled out between his teeth and he just murmured, “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan, squeezing his eyes shut, didn’t reply.

*

The second day was somehow better and worse at the same time. For one thing, Dorian’s attitude had mostly disappeared. But it was replaced by an odd, almost nervous demeanor that was more than a little unsettling. Whenever he so much as accidentally brushed up against Lavellan he would practically leap back as if burned, apologizing through words or his absolutely ashamed expression. It didn’t do anything for Lavellan’s self-esteem; that was for sure. And Nira kept eying them with what Lavellan thought was the dragon version of sheer bewilderment. He could relate.

Thankfully, they only had to deal with one group of Venatori, and after they’d cleared the camp out in what was probably record time, they found an odd passageway in the camp’s center that lead down to what Lavellan at first thought must be the Tomb. It contained a strange altar surrounded by unlit veilfire torches and slabs of rock inscribed with what appeared to be parts of a story. Lavellan did not like puzzles.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Dorian said airily, “and assume that the torches should be lit in the order of the story’s progression.”

“Try it,” Lavellan said, folding his arms and frowning as he paced around the squarish chamber impatiently.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Still afraid of tight places, Inquisitor?”

Lavellan ran a hand through his hair. “Just get on with it, alright?”

Dorian shrugged, hesitating before lighting the first torch, blue light flaring with a wisp of Fade energy. “Well, that did something,” he said, going to the next one, and the next, and the next. When they were all lit, the crunching grind of stone filled the air and the opposite wall slid away to reveal a smaller chamber containing what looked to be a sarcophagus. “Hellooo,” Dorian whistled, going over curiously. Lavellan bit his lip before following lingering outside the slab of rock. He didn’t want to get trapped in there if it decided to close again.

Dorian, however, approached the sarcophagus with interest, pushing the lid away and sending a huge cloud of dust up into the musty air. Lavellan coughed, nose wrinkling. “Well? Find anything besides bones?”

Dorian shook his head. “There’s no skeleton,” he murmured. “Just this.” He held up a dagger, dwarven-made, its hilt dripping with rubies. Lavellan took it, intrigued. A faint ice rune crackled to life on its blade. “And this…it looks to be part of a key!” Dorian exclaimed, holding up a silvery fragment of metal that did look very much like a key handle. “I believe we’re on the right track, Inquisitor. Perhaps these open the Tomb.”

Lavellan nodded stiffly. “Good work. Now…can we please get out of here before spiders show up or something?”

Dorian shuddered. “Lead the way.”

*

They set up camp in a semi-protected hollow of wind-smoothed rock, shielded from the sandstorm threatening to descend upon them any moment now. Far from dissuaded by that, Nira flew off to find some August Rams as Lavellan and Dorian sat beside the crackling fire quietly, eating the roasted nugs Lavellan had caught earlier that day. How those things still managed to survive out here was beyond him.

Lavellan was gazing up at the moons and chewing thoughtfully when Dorian cleared his throat and said, “Nice necklace, by the way.”

Lavellan blinked, hand falling to the halla pendant. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Where did you get it? It’s quite beautifully made.”

Lavellan frowned. “My father made it for me.”

“Your…father?”

Lavellan snorted. “What, did you think I was birthed from the spirit of the forest or something? Yes, I had a father. He’s quite dead now, but he was a much better one than yours, at any rate.”

“My father didn’t set very high standards,” Dorian said dryly, but he was still looking at the pendant. He tilted his head. “What was he like, your father?”

Lavellan paused, surprised. “I…”

“You don’t have to –”

“No, I suppose it’s…well, you barely know anything about me. Hardly anyone in the Inquisition does – Creators, only a few of them even bothered to ask for my first name.” Lavellan shrugged, looking away. “But…alright. My father was named Sorren, and he was the clan healer. No, he wasn’t a mage…that was my mother; but he had a gift nonetheless. He never much liked hunting. He preferred to help rather than to hurt.”

“Sounds like someone we know,” Dorian said.

“Cole? Yes…I think Cole and my father would have gotten along. He was…he was one of the most compassionate people I knew.” Lavellan swallowed. “He was a good singer, too. My mother wasn’t at all.” He chuckled. “So it was my father who sang lullabies to me and Enya when we were children. He told us all the old stories, too…about the gods.”

Dorian tilted his head. “You wear the vallaslin of Ghilan’nain, yes? Which god’s vallaslin did your father choose?”

Lavellan smiled slightly. “Dirthamen, god of secrets and knowledge. He gave the elves faith, and loyalty to their kin. It fit him, I think. My mother wore Andruil’s – she was a great hunter, after all.” His smile fell as he stared into the flames. “My sister would have chosen Mythal.” He took a shaky breath. “I think that’s enough about my family.”

“Of course,” Dorian said quietly. “For what it’s worth…I’m sorry, Lavellan.”

Lavellan closed his eyes. “Are you?”

*

On the second night, Lavellan barely slept at all. By tomorrow night, he would be dead – or so the shadow said. The shadow had been alarmingly absent as of late, and Lavellan felt strangely lonely because of it. He kept thinking back to that shadow’s silvery antithesis, though, and the warning she had given him – if it could even be called that. If it was a warning, it was a strange one – she had hesitated to say anything that wasn’t terribly vague and unhelpful.

Then again, maybe the shadow was a fool and he would live a long, long life.

Doubtful.

Shortly after Lavellan had managed to drift off into a light, uneasy slumber, he was startled awake by a distinct crunch of boots on sand outside. He elbowed Dorian, who awoke with a soft grumble. Lavellan raised a finger to his lips and Dorian sat up slowly, eyes widening as he heard it too, along with their low whispers. Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. They were speaking in…Tevene? He gritted his teeth. Venatori.

Dorian appeared to be listening hard, though the sound of dragon snores was probably masking most of their words. There had to be two or three of them at least…they rounded the side of the tent, probably trying to find the flap, and then all of them swore in unison as they (presumably) saw Nira.

Unfortunately for them, their fervent “fasta vass” was loud enough to wake up said dragon. And she was not very happy to see them, if her thundering roar and the inferno that followed was anything to go by.

Dorian and Lavellan lay still, hands inches away from their weapons and sparks crackling in Dorian’s palm, waiting warily. The silhouettes of the people outside were illuminated against the tent canvas by dragonfire from time to time, and Lavellan winced as one of them fell, trying to block out the chorus of terrible screaming. Apparently their armor was not nearly as fireproof as the tent.

When the fire died down and the cries tapered off into uneasy silence, Lavellan bit his lip and ducked out of the tent, new dagger in hand. He nearly stepped on a charred corpse lying just outside, biting back a curse and carefully avoiding it. He’d been right about the Venatori part, judging by the blackened Tevinter heraldry on its robes and the staff snapped in two, flung several feet away. There were two other bodies like it, one of them missing an arm. It was even farther away from its owner than the staff.

Cautiously, Lavellan looked up at Nira. Smoke was still curling from her mouth and nostrils, and there was blood dripping from her teeth that almost certainly didn’t belong to her. When she saw him, she chirped and lowered her head, sniffing at him with concern. Lavellan swallowed. She’d just killed three men in less than thirty seconds. _Bad men_ , he told himself, but he wondered if she knew the difference.

Dorian slipped out of the tent after him, sucking in a breath and skirting the bodies hastily. Nira looked at him, and for a split second Lavellan feared she might forget he was a friend and lunge at him with a snarl, fire blazing. But she just sat back on her haunches and blinked at them slowly, oblivious to their trepidation. Dorian edged away from her; Lavellan couldn’t blame him.

Then Dorian paused at the edge of the camp. “Lavellan,” he hissed, gesturing for him to come over. Lavellan did, and Dorian pointed at the sand. Footprints – a single pair, widely-spaced…one of the Venatori had gotten away. They peered frantically into the night, but even Lavellan had no luck in picking the escaped intruder out among the shifting sand dunes. Nira padded up next to them with a low whine, as if she knew she’d failed. Lavellan furrowed his brow.

“Could you understand them?” he asked Dorian.

Dorian looked troubled. “Bits and pieces. Not that much of it made sense…they spoke of a woman…but they called her _domina_.” He folded his arms. “As in, what a slave would call a female master.”

“So…a powerful woman?”

Dorian shrugged. “One can only assume. And they spoke of you, obviously…they said you were what this domina was searching for. And…” He hesitated.

Lavellan waited.

Dorian sighed reluctantly. “They said, ‘justice will be served at last.’ That’s all I heard, regrettably.”

“And one of them escaped,” Lavellan murmured, trying to ignore the fear growing inside of him. It was almost the third night, after all. He pushed that thought away. “They’ll probably go running to this woman, whoever she is, and tell her our whereabouts.”

Dorian nodded. “We should move,” he agreed.

Lavellan supposed it was good he hadn’t been able to sleep after all.

*

The third day dragged on and on – every second was a special kind of torture, with Lavellan constantly tense and expecting the mysterious Venatori and their domina to ambush them or…or do whatever it was that they wanted to do with them. Nira seemed carefree, alternating between flying several dozen feet above them or bounding through the sand, chasing after any unlucky creatures who happened to be in the vicinity. Lavellan was glad he and Dorian had left their mounts back at the main camp – Nira hadn’t quite formed the distinction between horse and food yet.

But there was the drawback of having to walk. A lot. For a very, very long time, under the very, very hot sun. Lavellan felt like he was on the verge of melting. Maybe that was how he would go – Inquisitor Lavellan, turned into a sad puddle of elf in the middle of the picturesque Hissing Wastes. Varric would be so upset – what an anticlimactic ending.

He tried to make small talk with Dorian as much as possible, if only to avoid getting caught up in his insistent, unhappy thoughts. The mage seemed surprised but receptive enough, telling animated stories about the excessive mischief he and Felix had caused, about the exotic creature called a tiger he’d seen as a child, about the ridiculous eighteenth birthday party his parents had thrown in the hopes of pairing him up with a suitable young lady. “That went _swimmingly_ , as I’m sure you can imagine,” Dorian said, rolling his eyes. “To be quite honest, I believe I left in the middle of it with one of the young lady’s brothers. What was his name...Augusto, Augustus? Or did it start with an E…”

Lavellan laughed tightly. It took an effort not to clench his fists. “Was that when the unstoppable force that is Dorian Pavus started bringing shame upon his family name, then?”

Dorian snorted, and if he was embarrassed he certainly didn’t show it. “Ha! No, that started much earlier.” He paused, thinking. “I believe…the first one was when I was fourteen? Yes…that sounds about right.”

Lavellan stared at him. “ _Fourteen_?!”

“Mm.” Dorian kept walking, apparently unaware of Lavellan’s astonishment. “He was much older, of course – I was utterly drunk and had no idea what I was doing anyway. Don’t remember a bit of it! But I’m guessing it wasn’t _terrible_ , because that certainly wasn’t the last such…encounter I had.” He chuckled.

Lavellan was still staring. “Dorian…”

Dorian looked up, confused. “What?”

He made a frustrated noise. “I know whoring yourself out is what you do best, but…a pretty, young, rich boy, sleeping around with whoever would take him…fenedhis, you could have gotten yourself hurt, Dorian!”

Dorian blinked. “Hurt? Well, I suppose I…” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I didn’t really care if I did.”

Lavellan set his jaw, turning away. “Somehow, I’m not surprised,” he muttered. “Now who has no sense of self-preservation?”

He didn’t see the way Dorian looked at him as he stalked off, eyes wide and wondering, lips curved into a soft, sad frown.

*

The sun set, night fell, and Lavellan was still breathing. Of course he was still breathing. Why would he believe a probably-demonic shadow’s prophecies, after all? True, the night wasn’t over yet…but Lavellan was exhausted, and after Nira’s display the other night he felt safer in his bedroll. (He did triple-check it for any venomous snakes, poisonous spiders, or suspicious-looking insects. Thankfully, there was nothing except some unremarkable lint.) Dorian kept eying him worriedly. Lavellan did not explain himself.

But as it turned out, the real dangers were inside his own head.

He fell asleep faster than he had in a long time, and when he dreamed it was in the forest again – but not a shadowy forest… _his_ forest, the one back home, the one he had grown up in, the one that had been his entire world before the Conclave. Everything was so _alive_ , and he could hear the birds soaring through the canopy, the deer leaping through the underbrush, the bears foraging for berries in the sweet spring air…

He sniffed, and his ears went back. Maybe…not so sweet after all. He smelled…blood. Lots of blood. His breath caught. “No,” he whispered.

The trees were laughing at him. _Yes_ , they seemed to say, mocking.

Lavellan started running, bare soles of his feet flying across the new grass, lungs burning and heart pounding with adrenaline and dread. He already knew what had happened before he pushed the sapling’s branches aside, stepping into the ruins of his clan’s camp. A cry stuck in his throat, coming out as a sob. It was a massacre. The stench of blood and death and _family_ all mixed together was too much.

His Keeper was one of the first bodies he saw, mangled beyond belief by sword slashes and mabari teeth marks. He shuddered, stepping away, hardly able to recognize her face. He didn’t want to look at all the other faces, but found himself unable to tear his gaze away – his fellow hunters were dead throughout the camp, some with blades sticking out of their stilled chests, others with heads cut clean off. Lavellan almost found it easier to look at those, faceless as they were…until he found his own mother.

He fell to his knees before her with a broken gasp, staring at her severed neck, disbelieving, then back to her sightless eyes and her matted hair, pale and ghostly against the dark, bloodstained earth. “Mamae,” he whispered, seeing the crumpled piece of paper in her hands, the halla pendant hanging from a stiff, cold finger.  
His father could not be far away.

Yes. There, lying on the outskirts on his back. He could have been sleeping if not for the arrow protruding from his forehead, a thin trickle of dried blood running down his brow, and his half-open eyes. They were empty, sightless, dull. Lavellan reached out, fingers shaking, and closed them, hardly able to bear how waxy and lifeless his father’s skin felt. “Ir abelas,” he whispered, bowing his head. “This is all my fault…”

“I’m glad you realize that,” a voice said from behind him. Lavellan whirled upright, reaching for his weapon but finding nothing. The shadow lurked next to his family’s wrecked aravel, and rage and despair coiled tight in Lavellan’s breast. “And to think you complained when I showed you how happy they were!” It snickered. “Would you prefer to see your lovely sister now? Or maybe you’d prefer to see her as she was in death?”

Lavellan’s eyes widened. “No –”

But it was too late. The shadow twisted, and then Enya was standing there, her body mottled with burns, a huge scorch mark on her small chest. Her skin was pale, too pale, her hair as white as bone. When she stepped towards him, it was as if she was floating.

Lavellan shook his head. “Please, stop,” he begged. But Enya advanced on him with eyes as dull as their father’s. “It should have been me,” he told her, voice trembling. “I know that. You…you were going to be the next Keeper. I was…I was nothing.” Tears filled his eyes, the numbness finally giving away to raw misery. “I am nothing,” he breathed, and then Enya vanished and the shadow surged forward in a swirl of darkness that Echo thought might just consume him.

But instead he felt arms around him, and he couldn’t help but lean into the shadow’s embrace. “Hush,” the shadow murmured, stroking his hair, voice soft and completely devoid of derision. “You are everything.”

Lavellan didn’t know what to say to that.

The shadow kept talking. “So many of the ones you love are dead, da’len,” it said, tilting his head up with a long finger. Lavellan searched its blank, black face for something, anything – a hint as to what it was – but all he found were the smoky suggestions of ears, pointed like his own. The shadow’s grip tightened. “I wonder…do you want to watch another loved one die? Could you even survive it yourself? Or would it tear you apart…break your heart…? I think it would, da’len. I think it would.”

“I don’t want anyone to die,” Lavellan said, panicked. “Don’t let anyone else die!”

“This is not my choice to make,” the shadow said, pulling away. “And this is not my doing, either – much as you would like to see me as the villain here, fate will always have its way, in the end. It is out of my control.”

“You said you were my friend,” Lavellan said fiercely. “Prove it, then!”

“I will, da’len,” the shadow promised. “But you must die first. You know this. On the third night…”

“But it’s the third night!” Lavellan exclaimed frantically. “It’s the third night, and I’m not –”

“On the third night,” the shadow repeated. “You must make the choice to –”

“Lavellan?! Lavellan! Wake up!”

Lavellan opened his eyes, disoriented, mouth going dry as he saw Dorian looming over him, hands on his shoulders, shaking him. The mage looked absolutely terrified, and started stammering as soon as Lavellan came to. “Oh, Maker, you were…Lavellan, you were screaming, you sounded like you were dying or in pain or…”

“I’m sorry,” Lavellan said quietly, stunned into silence when Dorian scoffed and hugged him tightly to his chest. For five glorious seconds he let Dorian do that, and then he remembered…well, everything, and cleared his throat, pushing Dorian away. “I’m fine,” he assured. “Really. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

Nira abruptly tried to poke her head through the tent flaps, nearly knocking Dorian over. Lavellan let out a nervous bark of laughter. “Not just me, it seems,” Dorian said dryly, retreating to his own bedroll with a faint blush. Satisfied Lavellan wasn’t being attacked, Nira withdrew, shuffling back to the fire. Dorian peered at him in the semi-darkness. “Truly, though…is everything alright? You were…saying names. Talking about…shadows.”

Lavellan forced a smile. “Dorian. I appreciate the concern, but it was just a nightmare. Unlike you, I don’t have demons flocking to me nightly, alright? Just a dream. And if you don’t mind…I’d like to go back to sleep now.”

Dorian huffed and got back under his blankets. “Whatever you say, Lavellan. And for the record, demons flock to me because I’m irresistible to everyone, thank you very much.”

Lavellan snorted. “Uh-huh. And possession’s got _nothing_ to do with it.”

Dorian sniffed. “Of course not.”

Minutes later, Dorian was fast asleep.

Lavellan had lied to him. He wasn’t going to be sleeping any time soon.

*

Lavellan lived to see the fourth day, and the ridiculous amounts of wyverns they stumbled upon. “What is this; a bloody nest?!” Dorian snapped, plunging the sharp end of his staff into the closest one’s back and leaping away as it flailed madly. “Such absurd creatures – they’re like dragons, but small, ugly, and remarkably stupid.”

The wyvern tried to bite his leg. Three of Lavellan’s arrows stopped it in its tracks. Nira swatted at another one, sending it flying several meters into the air. When it landed, it didn’t get up.

It took two more wyverns before they reached a towering cliff that formed a passageway, flanked by two impressive dwarven statues. They exchanged looks. “This looks…important,” Dorian said uncertainly.

Nira growled. Lavellan patted her side. “More wyverns?” She growled again. “Let’s be careful,” he advised before venturing into the passageway. It was longer than he expected, and Nira grew more and more agitated the closer they got to the other side. There were small iron lanterns placed throughout, lighting their way with pools of flickering yellow. He narrowed his eyes at them.

“This is farther east then we’ve ever gone in the Wastes,” Dorian commented, examining some carvings on the rocky walls with interest. “All of this – the statues, the lanterns, these runes – they’re dwarven-made. Perhaps…this Tomb is closer than we think.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Lavellan said, letting Nira go ahead of him as the passageway widened, then ended. All at once, they were surrounded by crumbling ruins, stone pillars of enormous size lining the sides of a dusty vale, many of them fallen or well on their way. But one could still imagine the previous majesty of this place. “What do you know,” Lavellan murmured, stepping forward with awe. “Looks like you were right, Dorian –”

The rattling, unmistakably loud snore of a dragon shook the air. Nira bared her teeth, starting forward. “Kaffas,” Dorian hissed, scrambling after her with Lavellan close behind. “Inquisitor, please shut your dragon up! From the sound of it, that thing is asleep but not for long –”

Nira halted at the end of the hill, hackles raised and growl growing. Lavellan and Dorian stared at the slumbering beast with baited breath. It was nearly as large as the Guardian of Mythal had been, Lavellan thought – a mature high dragon the color of sand with bright, darkly mottled wings and an impressively large set of black, downward-curving horns. Fire glowed faintly in the slits on its neck as it breathed.

In other words, it was not something Lavellan wanted to wake up. Even Nira retreated slightly, but when she backed up she stepped on something which crunched noisily, making all of them jump. Nira slowly looked behind her…only to see a broken, black egg under her paw, one of many in a half-hidden nest. She whined nervously, and Lavellan stared in growing horror as something crawled from a similar nest closer to the dragon – a dragonling. And not a friendly one, judging by its shrill shrieks and furiously beating wings.

Nira scrambled backwards even more, only succeeding on breaking something else – the charred, decaying skull of a drake.

“Oh, lovely,” Dorian said faintly. “It killed its mate. That’s never a good sign.”

Another dragonling joined the first. The mother stirred. “It’s time to leave,” Lavellan whispered.

Nira snarled as one of the babies spat fire at her. The snoring stopped. “I concur,” Dorian said hurriedly, edging away.

Nira’s wings were half-spread, but she didn’t seem keen about flying away. Lavellan wondered if they’d have to try to make another getaway on her back. But then the mother heaved herself to her feet, fixing a sulfurous stare on them, wings flexing and unfolding with a low, threatening growl. “Lavellan, _run_ ,” Dorian urged, grabbing his arm and tugging him away. Lavellan shook his head.

“Nira,” he ordered. “Come.” His voice shook. The dragon tossed her head, tail lashing. There were five dragonlings now, all with sparks flying from their jaws.  
Nira stood her ground. She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were focused firmly on the mother, teeth bared and throat filling with flames. _She’s not going to run_ , he realized, heart sinking. The other dragon was easily twice her size, with ruthless offspring on her side, but Nira was apparently determined to prove herself. He couldn’t just…he couldn’t just leave her…

But if he and Dorian stayed, they would surely be killed.

“Nira,” he whispered, reaching out just as Dorian yanked him back and Nira lunged with a fearsome roar, aiming for the dragon’s neck. Lavellan he stumbled back, sprinting with Dorian away from the struggling dragons, the temperature rising as flames howled through the air. Lavellan nearly tripped over the rocky remnants of a pillar but Dorian caught his hand and heaved him up, the two of them zigzagging through the haphazard ruins, two of the dragonlings on their tail when Lavellan glanced back. His heart faltered – Nira and the mother dragon were locked into combat, Nira with her jaws still fastened on the other’s shoulder, trying to reach its soft neck. The mother was beating her wings, forcing the two of them aloft, raking sharp claws across Nira’s belly and wings in a shower of crimson. Nira screamed.

Lavellan made a choked sound. Dorian shook his head. “Don’t look,” he pleaded, “just keep running. Up there – that’s the Tomb, it has to be.” Wide stone steps led to the illuminated entrance, flanked by those same statues and a larger, grander one with a greatsword.

“We don’t have the key!” Lavellan gasped as they hurried up the stairs. “We only found one fragment –”

But when they reached the ornate, sturdy door, panting and desperate, Dorian shoved against it and to both of their surprise, it opened easily. They exchanged startled looks before dashing inside, slamming it shut behind them. Dragonling claws scratched madly, but after a few seconds the sound faded and they gave up…presumably to join the battle against Nira. Those sounds – agonized screeches and roars – had not faded at all.

Lavellan leaned heavily against the closed door. “I left her out there,” he whispered. “Alone.”

“You had no choice,” Dorian said quietly. “You tried your best, Lavellan – she made the decision to stay and fight. There was nothing you could –” Suddenly, Dorian staggered, knees giving out from under him and eyes widening. Lavellan tried to help him but Dorian shook his head frantically, clutching at his staff. “Spell purge,” he managed, voice faint. “Vishante kaffas – behind you…”

Lavellan whirled, hands on his daggers, freezing when he saw three Red Templars advancing from the shadowy depths of the Tomb, and behind them, at least a dozen Venatori. The lead Templar had his sword raised and pointed at Dorian, wreathed in silvery lyrium light tinted an eerie scarlet. He flicked his wrist and Dorian hissed in pain, glaring at him. Lavellan moved in front of Dorian immediately, daggers coming alive with frost and lightning. “Any closer and I’ll slice that shiny armor to ribbons,” he snarled.

The Templar laughed; a tinny, hollow sound within his helmet. “Oh, he’s the Inquisitor, alright. And with his pet Pavus, too. Good work, scout.”

One of the Venatori nodded. Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. The one that got away. “Who the fuck are you,” he snapped.

The Templar shrugged, waving the sword casually and making Dorian double over with a curse, the cords in his neck standing out. “Stop!” Lavellan cried, his Mark flaring to life in an emerald crackle. “What are you doing to him?!”

“Just a trick Samson taught me,” the Templar replied smoothly. “Dispels all the mage’s spells at once. Feels like they’re getting stabbed, apparently. But I'm not who you need to worry about.” With that, he stepped aside, and the enemy ranks parted for what appeared to be one of the hooded Venatori. Lavellan stood uncertainly, eyes flicking from the Templar to the approaching figure. They reached for their hood, and he braced himself.

He couldn’t have prepared himself for what was revealed. Or rather, whom.

She had pale, sallow skin and long dark hair that fell around her thin face in waves. But what made Lavellan stare was the angry red sunburst scar on her brow, and the marbled blue-violet of her eyes. The spiderweb of light spread out from her eyes, across her cheekbones and jaw, giving her skin the appearance of being on the verge of cracking, as if no longer strong enough to contain the brilliance within. She regarded them with a cold expression, yet…it was not lacking emotion, as a Tranquil’s should. The woman was…angry.

Lavellan didn’t move away from Dorian. “You’re their _domina_ ,” he said flatly. “Another lackey of Corypheus?”

The woman’s mouth twisted. “I am not here for Corypheus,” she said, voice sharp and strong. “Nor am I here for Samson. I am here for Maddox.”

Lavellan wavered. “ _Maddox_? Why…” Then it clicked. _He will be avenged, Inquisitor. Helena will make certain of that_. “Helena,” he breathed. “You’re his lover from Kirkwall who escaped and became an abomination.”

The light in her eyes flickered. “She is a spirit, not a demon,” Helena corrected. “She made me whole again. And then you took a part of me away, Inquisitor. You killed him. My Maddox…and for that, you will pay.”

Lavellan shook his head, bewildered. “No! I didn’t kill Maddox! He poisoned himself before I even arrived –”

“But he did it because of you,” Helena murmured, tilting her head. “He only wanted to help – Samson made him a tool to use as he wished, because that’s what Tranquils are good for, you see. But he was still a person, a person who was murdered to further the violent crusade led by a ridiculous little elf with powers he does not even understand.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Lavellan repeated. “I didn’t want him to die! We gave him a proper burial –”

“How dare you!” Helena cried, robes swirling and skin cracking further. “How dare you take his body away from me! He was _mine_ , my everything, and to you he was just another pawn in your game. Well, Inquisitor – your game is over. Now, it’s time to play _my_ game.” She pointed to Dorian and nodded to the lead Templar. “Collar him.”

Lavellan lunged at the Templar without a thought, grabbing for his pauldrons and holding tight. Before the stunned soldier could even swing his sword, Lavellan stabbed at the space between breastplate and helmet, blade sinking into flesh and blood gushing hotly over his hands. The Templar jerked, trying to grab at him, but Lavellan kicked his knee and he crumpled with a clatter of metal. Behind him, he heard Dorian gasp in relief as the purge was lifted, only for him to cry out as the two remaining Templars quickly took up the reins.

Lavellan moved to them next, but three force spells at once flung him to the opposite wall, hitting the Tomb’s door with a sick thud. His head spun. Helena frowned down at him. “You claim innocence, then murder a man before my very eyes? Inquisitor, forgive me if I do not believe you. But justice must be served.”

Lavellan’s vision was blurry since hitting the wall, but it cleared enough for him to see one of the Templars take a large collar from the dead one’s belt, unlatching it and going to Dorian. Lavellan struggled to stand up, knuckles scraping across the stone. “Don’t touch him… _don’t touch him_ …”

The chamber exploded into green light, Lavellan’s Mark sending a bolt of agony up his arm as it sent energy spiking through the Tomb, killing three of the Venatori instantly and striking a Templar hard enough to make him shout. Helena, however, surrounded herself in a cage-like barrier of swirling blue, waiting patiently until the Mark sputtered out, deadly arcs dissolving into nothing. Exhausted, Lavellan slumped, black spots flickering across his vision. She kicked his daggers away, kneeling and tilting his chin up.

“You have fight, Inquisitor,” she said softly. “Especially to protect the ones you love.”

There was a _click_ as the collar fastened around Dorian’s neck, sealing his magic far, far away. Dorian whimpered, fighting halfheartedly against the Templars who took his staff and potions. Lavellan swallowed roughly.

“Don’t hurt him,” he whispered. “Please. You want vengeance – fine. But just punish me –”

“That’s not how my game works,” Helena replied. “Inquisitor…when the news of Maddox’s death reached me, I was hurt more than ever before. He was killed; I was hurt. I want you to feel that, Inquisitor – I want you to feel as helpless and broken as I did.”

Lavellan shook his head. “You don’t have to do this –”

She looked almost sad. “You’re wrong,” she said simply, and then she took a small bottle of viscous green liquid from her robes, uncorking it easily. Two Venatori flanked her, and Lavellan found himself unable to move. “This,” she told him, “is blightcap essence. A deadly poison, fast-acting in large amounts…but slightly slower and more painful in smaller doses. With this particular dosage…it will take about three days.”

Lavellan’s heart pounded in a panic but he could do nothing as she forced his lips open and poured the poison down his throat. His eyes darted to the side, and he saw Dorian was being given the same thing. The Venatori released him, and he tried to move to stop the Templars, but it was too late. Dorian had swallowed the deadly drops, and Lavellan thought he could feel his heart shattering in his chest. “No,” he said weakly, falling back again.

“There is a catch,” Helena said, taking another bottle from her robes. Lavellan flinched back, but she smiled and shook her head. “This is the antidote.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“But the catch is that there is only enough to save one of you,” she continued. “Try to split it, and you’ll both die. As I said…he was killed; I was hurt. It is your choice, Inquisitor.” Helena put the bottle in front of him. “But one of you _will_ die. You have three days.”

The Tomb’s shadows shivered. _On the third night_ …

*

Nira slowly lifted herself from the rubble, casting her gaze upon the dead high dragon sprawled beside her, throat and belly torn and scarlet. The bodies of the dragon’s children were scattered here and there among the ruins that had been mostly smashed just minutes before. But they did not matter. What mattered was that _she_ was alive. She was victorious. She was the strongest, and she could protect Him from anything.

Where…where was He?

It hurt to walk, even more to spread her nearly-shredded wings, but as she neared the strange glowing rock He must have gone through, her nostrils flared in alarm. Blood. Blood and magic, His magic, the green magic that felt so familiar to her but now it just felt wrong, tinged with fear and frustration. Distressed, she whined into the uneasy silence, knowing that she could not get past this rock. But He was in there! She knew it, He was there with the Other, the dark one who smelled like the bad ones she’d burnt but also smelled like Him, as if they were mates. It was very confusing, but she knew they were in danger now, and she knew that she must save them. She must save Him, anyway. She was not so sure about the Other.

But how? This place was not somewhere she could go. But…but maybe…the Horned and Her, they could go here. They could help. She lifted her head, blood trickling down her scales, scenting the breeze. They were far. So far. But she would find them.

She had to.


	17. Chapter 17

Lavellan was in a kind of daze as he and Dorian were dragged deeper into the labyrinthine Tomb, cramped stone passageways making his head spin. The air felt too thick to breathe, and he wasn’t certain if the pounding in his ears was the pressure building or the pounding of his own pulse. Maybe both. Creators, he missed the sky. Where was the sky?

Dorian had more fight left in him, probably because he hadn’t gotten his head smashed against a wall. He twisted and spat at the Templars holding him, hands twitching furiously behind his back, itching to use the magic that had been taken from him. But all he got for his efforts was a rough shove and a sharp tug on the collar that left him gasping, eyes wide and panicked.

One of the Venatori on either side of Lavellan scoffed. “ _Pathice_ ,” he said under his breath, and Dorian _snarled_ , nearly breaking free of the Templar’s grip. The Venatori just chuckled. “Control him, Captain,” he said to the Templar, who grunted and forced Dorian to keep walking. He nudged Lavellan slightly. “At least the little knife-ear is behaving.” Lavellan’s head hung down, eyes half-opened and unfocused, lost in a haze of fear and denial. “More of a _servus_ than an Inquisitor. Think he’d kneel for us?”

“Shut your _fucking mouth_ –” Dorian cried, cut off when the Templar grabbed his collar again, halting in front of a heavy stone door.

The scout flanking them came forward with a key, and when she unlocked the door, revealing a dark, cave-like space beyond, Lavellan’s adrenaline kicked in and he started to struggle, hissing and cursing as the Venatori forced him towards the open doorway. No, no, they could not lock him in there, in the dark, underground, to die – _to die_ …

But his boots scraped uselessly against the cold ground and gave way, sending him tumbling with Dorian into their new prison. They’d been stripped of their weapons and outer armor, so Lavellan felt vulnerable in more ways than one as the shadows of their enemies fell over them, blocking the only escape. “Here’s your bloody antidote,” the scout muttered, placing it on the threshold. She wrinkled her nose. “She should’ve just let you both die.” She sneered, and the pale moon of her cruel face was the last thing Lavellan saw before the door slammed shut with a hollow _thud_ , plunging them into darkness.

Their shallow breathing was the only sound in the cave, until Dorian made a wretched noise and slumped back against the wall. “There’s nothing,” he whispered bitterly, frantically. “It’s gone, my magic, the Fade, it’s all – I can’t –”

Lavellan reached out for him, elvhen eyes adjusting to the shadows until Dorian was a dim figure of black and gray before him, his eyes bright and afraid. “It’s the collar,” he whispered back. “It’s locked shut, like the one Tallis used.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry; I tried to stop them from –”

“ _Sorry_?” Dorian interrupted, incredulous. “This is not your fault in any way! Venhedis, stop blaming yourself for every unfortunate thing that happens to us, Lavellan!”

His voice was too loud in the small space, echoing harshly. Lavellan flinched back.

Dorian closed his eyes. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he said dully. “For everything.”

Lavellan swallowed. “Dorian…don’t –”

“No,” Dorian said, shaking his head, “you deserve to know the truth of what happened in the tavern that night.”

Lavellan flinched again. “Who was it, then?” he snapped, though he didn’t actually want to know who had given Dorian those bruises, who had replaced him so easily. “That Orlesian noble? A soldier? One of the damn Chargers?”

“It wasn’t anyone, Lavellan,” Dorian said quietly. “I was never unfaithful to you, and I never wanted to be, difficult as that may be to believe.”

“Difficult?!” Lavellan threw up his hands. “You’re lying to my face; I saw those bruises and your hair was –”

“There were three soldiers,” Dorian said, looking down. “I was terribly drunk, as you saw, and when I was leaving the tavern…well, they stopped me before I could get very far.” He sighed. “I was right about rumors spreading fast, I suppose…they accused me of plenty of rather villainous things, including being a spy and treating you like a slave, all the while one of them pinned me to that filthy wall with a hand around my neck. Choking tends to leave some unfortunate marks.”

Lavellan blanched. “So…so you didn’t…but…I don’t understand –”

“In the Temple,” Dorian continued, “when you were stabbed and bleeding out in my arms…I came to a rather terrifying conclusion.” He took a shaky breath. “I realized I cared about you more than…more than I’ve ever really cared about anyone before. And I couldn’t bear to lose you. Regrettably, you seem to make a habit of throwing yourself into deadly situations. So, like the coward I am…I let you believe I had turned from you. Kissing Cullen was…a mistake. But it was all for your own good, Lavellan.”

Lavellan stared at him, hurt and confused. “For my own good?! I thought…” He bit his lip. “I thought I wasn’t good enough for you,” he admitted. “That…that you didn’t want me anymore.”

“Never,” Dorian breathed, sounding like he was in pain. “You’re…you’re one of the best men I’ve ever met, Lavellan, and easily the most beautiful.” Lavellan opened his mouth to deny it, but Dorian gave him a look so sad that he stuttered off into silence. “And it’s for that reason that we cannot…that we should not…I told you I meant to return to Tevinter. I said I would write to you, and that what we had would continue. I confess I never intended for it to do so. When I left…I planned to leave for good.”

Lavellan’s lip trembled. “Why?” he said in a small voice. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you deserve so much better,” Dorian told him miserably. “You should have someone as good as you are, Lavellan – not a self-absorbed ass too afraid of getting hurt to commit to anything, much less anyone.”

“You’re not – that’s not –”

“You deserve someone who isn’t rumored to be using you like a puppet, Lavellan! Someone who isn’t from a country that not only destroyed your People but enslaved them! You deserve someone who can live with you as long as you wish, not someone bound to a birthright who will undoubtedly have to return to his homeland someday to live out the rest of his wretched days as a hated magister.”

“We could find a way!” Lavellan argued, desperate. “And I don’t care about you being from Tevinter; I’ve told you that! You’re not using me and I don’t care what the rest of the Inquisition thinks –”

“Your life has been difficult enough already, Lavellan,” Dorian murmured. “I don’t wish to add to that any more than is necessary. But it seems I already have.” He frowned. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” Lavellan told him, moving close enough that the mage inhaled sharply, brow furrowing in bewilderment. “Creators, Dorian…I never stopped caring about you; I don’t know if I ever could. And I never wanted you to leave me.” He touched Dorian’s cheek, faltering. “Please don’t leave me.”

Dorian gazed at him, eyes flickering from his face to his lips, uncertain. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “No one has ever made me feel the way I feel about you. I have never wanted…I have never learned to hope for more. But you…from the moment you first kissed me, I wanted more, Lavellan. I still do.”

Lavellan shivered at those words, and it was as though a weight was lifted off his chest. He leaned in, fingertips skating across the mage’s jaw, and when he kissed Dorian there was no resistance, only warmth and familiarity. When Lavellan pulled back, Dorian stayed close, eyes fixed only on him, and Lavellan’s heart actually _fluttered_. He smiled slightly. “All you had to do was ask.”

Dorian shook his head. “But it’s too late now, isn’t it? You heard what that woman said. We only have three days before…” He looked towards the antidote, and picked it up carefully. The two of them stared at it in the dimness, the room lit eerily by the glow of the Mark as Lavellan held his hand up. The clear liquid swirled mockingly in its tiny glass bottle. _There is only enough to save one of you_.

“Nira will find the others,” Lavellan said, sounding surer than he felt. “Neither of us is going to die.”

“It should be me,” Dorian said suddenly.

Lavellan froze. “What?! No! Don’t be an idiot, Dorian. I won’t let you die.”

“I don’t think either of us has much of a choice in the matter,” Dorian replied, but he set the antidote down again, chewing his lip. “You really think Nira survived, and that she’ll find Cassandra and Bull in time?”

“Of course she did,” Lavellan retorted. “She’s my dragon. She’ll come back for us, you’ll see.”

Dorian nodded, though he was clearly unconvinced. “Well, I certainly hope you’re right. I’m not too keen on dying in this ugly wasteland in some stuffy tomb.”

“You won’t have to,” Lavellan said. He took Dorian’s hand and squeezed tightly. “I promise.”

*

They slept badly, unable to discern night from day, curled close together as the air grew colder and poison-induced fevers began to set in. Lavellan couldn’t believe how much he’d missed having Dorian pressed against him; he only wished it wasn’t under such bad circumstances. Intense headaches and violent coughing really took the romance out of the situation.

“Perhaps,” Dorian wheezed when they’d both coughed hard enough to wake up fully, “neither of us could take the antidote and we would die together. Wouldn’t that be just _lovely_.”

“I feel like I swallowed a beehive,” Lavellan groaned, burying his face against Dorian’s shoulder.

“They would write ballads about us, I’d wager,” Dorian continued, stroking Lavellan’s hair absentmindedly. “ _In darkness they fell, the mage and the elf –_ ”

“Fell and elf don’t even rhyme,” Lavellan mumbled against his tunic. “Maryden would be appalled.”

“I thought it was rather good,” Dorian said, affronted, but fell silent. Lavellan immediately missed his voice – the cave felt too empty without it. But he needn’t have worried – a few moments later, Dorian started talking again. “You know…the night before we found the Tomb…that dream you had. What was it about?”

Lavellan tensed. “It was nothing –”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Dorian said, frowning and peering down at him. “Listen…Solas spoke to me after the Temple about your dreams. He –”

“What?” Lavellan lifted his head, forgetting the pain momentarily. “What did he tell you?!”

Dorian looked at him with wide eyes. “Only that you’d been having nightmares! He said your Mark might be attracting demons, that’s all. I told him you’re as stubborn as they come, so I really doubted any demon could persuade you to do anything.” He hesitated. “ _Is_ the Mark attracting demons?”

Lavellan rubbed his eyes. “Just…just one, I think.” The image of the silvery figure flashed through his mind. “Maybe two, I don’t know…what do demons look like in your dreams, Dorian?”

Dorian flushed scarlet.

Lavellan folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “It’s not like…oh, fasta vass, alright, most of them are desire demons. I’m rather transparent in that aspect, I suppose. But they’re not…they don’t look like demons, just…people. Well, men. Lots and lots of men. They learned early on that women did not have nearly as much of an effect.”

Lavellan glared.

“It’s not as if I ever do anything with them!” Dorian exclaimed. “Not as of late, anyway. Maker, Lavellan, I’m not cheating on you in the Fade. But my _point_ is that they look like normal people, until they get frustrated, give up, and revert to their usual horned, purplish, half-naked form.” He tilted his head. “What do yours look like?”

“Shadows,” Lavellan muttered. “I mean, they…don’t have faces. But they speak to me, quite a lot, somehow.”

“What do they say to you?”

“Nothing important,” Lavellan lied. He coughed, covering his mouth with his hand, and when he pulled it away his palm was speckled with red. Lavellan quickly wiped it off on his breeches. “They just show me things, like…like my clan dying. And sometimes they take the form of...people close to me. Like my dead sister. Or you, but…you were Tranquil.”

“What?” Dorian wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer. “Lavellan! Why didn’t you say anything? That’s awful.” He frowned deeply. “And…if it’s a demon; that makes no sense. Why would it show you things like that if it wanted something from you? Because if it’s a demon, it most certainly wants something from you.”

Lavellan drew his knees up to his chest. Oh, it wanted something from him – it wanted him to die. And Lavellan feared that wish would be granted very soon. “It calls me da’len,” he added. “It means ‘little one.’ And it has pointed ears like an elf, too.”

Dorian made a thoughtful sound. “Come to think of it, most demons do have pointed ears…”

Hoping to change the subject, Lavellan smirked and twisted until his lips were inches from Dorian’s. “Oh? Is that why you were so keen on touching my ears?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t complaining, as I remember.” But he still lifted his hand, thumb and forefinger brushing along the graceful curve of Lavellan’s ears, making his eyes fall shut with a soft sigh. Then Dorian’s hand dropped. “If only I’d discovered that little trick sooner,” he said despondently, a cough bubbling up as if to prove his point. “Suppose they don’t find us in time?” Dorian asked, lips brushing along Lavellan’s cheek.

Lavellan kept his eyes closed, savoring the sensation. It was so much better than the burning in his chest. “Shhh,” he just said. “It hasn’t been that long yet.”

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed darkly, pulling on the cord around his neck and drawing out the message crystal there. Lavellan looked down at the one around his neck and barked out a short, tired laugh too. “Not very helpful now, are they?” Dorian said, shoving it back under his tunic. “You should have given the other one to Cassandra.”

Lavellan coughed in reply, and shuddered at the burst of pain in his abdomen that followed. That couldn’t mean anything good. His next breath came out rasping, and Dorian bit his lip. “The poison’s working its magic,” Lavellan said grimly. “Maybe…maybe it is the second day already.”

“You should take the antidote.”

Lavellan looked up at Dorian. The mage had picked up the small bottle and was holding it out to him like an offering. “Go on, take the bloody thing,” Dorian snapped. “I’ve studied poisons before, I know how they work, and Helena’s three-day estimate was a rough one at best. You’re smaller than me; the poison will kill you faster. So just _take_ it, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s fingers closed around the cold glass tentatively, then curled away. “I…I’m not taking it,” he whispered. “Dorian, I can’t –”

“Yes, you can!” Dorian exclaimed. “You have to, Lavellan! You lead half of Thedas, don’t you see that? You’re their last hope, the only thing standing between them and a madman who wants to tear the world to bits. I am the upstart Tevinter mage. Your lackey, remember? The lackey dies, not the hero. Not in any story – or any good story, at any rate.”

“You’re not going to die,” Lavellan said fiercely. But he took the bottle, tucking it into his pocket securely. “And nobody is taking it right now. The others could be on their way right now, Dorian.”

“You know they’re not,” Dorian shot back. “She told us the game…we have no choice but to play it.”

“Fuck her game,” Lavellan hissed, the sharp intake of air making his chest rattle alarmingly.

Dorian’s grip on him tightened. “Please,” he implored quietly. “Just…take it.”

Lavellan drew in a shuddering breath. “Not yet,” he whispered. “I can’t make that choice yet.” _I can’t let you die yet._

“But soon,” Dorian pressed. “Time is…time is running out, Lavellan. For both of us.” He exhaled and hid his face against Lavellan’s hair. Lavellan could feel the tremor that went through the mage’s body.

Lavellan tilted his head up and found Dorian’s lips. “Sleep,” he murmured. “One last time with me, alright?”

Dorian turned his face away, but nodded. “One last time,” he agreed shakily. He smiled, still playing at blithe. “Don’t you dare die without me, Inquisitor.”

*

Lavellan stood opposite the shadow. It regarded him with those marbled eyes, unblinking.

“You know what you must do,” it murmured in a voice soft and smooth as silk.

Lavellan stared at the shadow. Its darkness swirled towards him invitingly. “Nobody’s coming to save us, are they?”

The shadow tilted its head. “I’m afraid not, da’len.”

“Is this…really the only way?” Lavellan whispered, wrapping his arms around himself.

The shadow moved forward, until the cool, smoky suggestion of a hand was cupping his cheek. “I am sorry,” it offered. “But difficult decisions must be made.” Lavellan closed his eyes, leaning into the soft palm. “Do you trust me?” the shadow asked.

Lavellan almost laughed. It came out as a choked sound. “Do I have a choice?”

The shadow chuckled. “In this case, no, I think you and I would both agree there is only one choice you could live with, da’len. Or rather…die with. So…will you choose it?”

Lavellan stepped away, steeling himself. “Yes,” he said.

The shadow darkened for a second, its silhouette becoming clearer, more defined, before it faded again. “Farewell, da’len,” it murmured. “Dareth shiral.”

When Lavellan awoke Dorian’s breathing was as rough and shallow as his own. The mage seemed to have aged several years over the course of the night, his eyes surrounded by violet shadows, his cheekbones sunken and lips dry and cracked. But Lavellan’s measured breath still caught at how beautiful he was, and he tried his best to memorize Dorian’s face in those uneasy moments before Dorian stirred, eyes cracking open and looking blearily at Lavellan.

“Have you taken it yet?” was the first thing he asked. Lavellan swallowed back the lump in his throat and shook his head.

Before Dorian could protest, Lavellan leaned forward, into him, kissing him with what little strength he had left, the metallic taste of their breath almost overpowering. Dorian made a soft, confused sound, but clung to him like…well, a dying man, desperate for one last good memory. Lavellan mouthed at his neck around the collar and Dorian went pliant, arching up, his raspy breaths growing heavier as Lavellan slid their tunics up and off, both of them brushing hot palms over even hotter skin, sweat already shining in the light of the Mark.

They fumbled with their clothes, nearly ripping them off, and Lavellan wished it wasn’t going so fast, wished he could savor this, wished he could take his time to say goodbye. But this was the best he could do; this was all he had left to give. There was so little time left already – he could feel it, could feel the poison eating away at him, hollowing out his insides until nothing remained.

When he finally got his breeches off, he made sure the bottle was still in his pocket, folding the fabric tightly around the fragile glass before putting them aside, grabbing the tiny vial of oil there as he did. There was just enough left, enough to spread slick palms over Dorian and himself, settled in the mage’s lap as he squirmed, greedily drinking in every sound of pleasure he made, every expression of ecstasy. And when Lavellan tired of making Dorian squirm like that, he sank down atop him with a quiet curse, pain sharpening his blurred senses, giving him the clarity he needed to wrap his arms around Dorian’s neck and start moving.

Dorian clutched his hips, eyes wide and dark as he gazed up at Lavellan, shining with tears that finally spilled, slipping down his face like strands of gossamer, and Lavellan wanted to laugh because of course even his fucking _tears_ would be gorgeous.

“Dorian,” he murmured, panting as he moved faster, nuzzling at Dorian’s collar soothingly. “Oh, Dorian.” Dorian shifted and writhed and Lavellan moaned helplessly, teeth finding his skin, biting until he left a mark. That, at least, would remain after he was gone.

“Don’t forget me,” Dorian gasped, holding him hard enough to bruise. “Echo, don’t forget me, please, amatus, I love you, _I love you_ , please don’t forget that.”

Lavellan trembled, and he felt as though he were caught in a storm, except this time there was no one to save him. “I love you too,” he whispered, looking at Dorian’s bright eyes, unable to imagine them clouded by death. “And I’ll never forget you.” He lifted Dorian’s hand from his side, placing it atop his heart. “You’re here,” he said, putting his own hand on Dorian’s chest, letting himself find rhythm with the mage’s thundering pulse. “Always.”

Dorian’s sob snagged on a sigh, and he embraced Lavellan tightly, kissing him with all he had. Lavellan felt whole, with Dorian here, beneath him, inside of him, all around him – and he knew he would never feel like this again.

It ended far too quickly. All the tension left them, and Dorian’s heartbeat slowed, eyelids drooping. Lavellan allowed himself a few minutes to trace Dorian’s body, to explore his lips and mouth like they were new again, before climbing off and pulling his clothes back on, strangely calm though he was shaking all over. He stood once he was dressed, the antidote in his hand.

Dorian had managed to make himself presentable, but he was thoroughly exhausted, and when Lavellan looked at him he was already drifting off again into the uneasy limbo between life and death. Everything was going as planned, then. Lavellan uncapped the glass bottle, slowly moving to kneel before him, stroking his face carefully. It was damp, his dark eyelashes wet and starshaped against his cheeks.

_You know what you must do._

“I won’t let you die,” Lavellan repeated, and then he parted Dorian’s lips and poured the whole bottle into his mouth, stroking his throat with trembling fingers, the mage’s pulse a wild but wavering thing under his thumb. “Don’t forget me either.” Dorian swallowed it easily enough, and there was a moment where he started to smile in sleep, before his eyes opened and he saw the empty bottle in Lavellan’s hand.

There was an instant of silence, followed by an instant of horrified realization.

“No,” Dorian breathed. “No! Lavellan, what have you done?!”

“What had to be done,” Lavellan said numbly, sitting back on his heels. His chest was tight, and he knew it wasn’t just from guilt. “You were right. They’re not…they’re not coming for us.”

“You… _kaffas_ , no, no, Lavellan, you can’t die, you’re the Inquisitor – the world needs you!”

“No,” Lavellan corrected quietly, holding out his left palm and revealing the Mark. “The world just needs this.”

“I need you,” Dorian whispered, his voice utterly wrecked.

Lavellan bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian laughed, but it was humorless, frantic. “You really do have a fucking deathwish.”

“I don’t want to die,” Lavellan said, looking up at him and biting his lip hard. “I just don’t want _you_ to die.”

“I’m not the hero in this story –”

Lavellan cut him off fiercely. “You’re wrong. You said you’re my lackey but that’s not true, Dorian. You’re the heir to House Pavus. You’re one of the few people who wants to at least try to fix Tevinter – and I know you could, Dorian, you could change so many things for the better there. You have the power to make your homeland a place to be admired, not feared.” He sighed, dimly feeling the scratchy pain building in his throat. “ _I’m_ not the hero here, Dorian. The Mark was an accident, not some gift from the bloody Maker. I’m just a Dalish elf with no clan – you’re a man who could rewrite history. So do it.”

Dorian’s eyes were shining again. “You bloody bastard,” he forced out, shaking his head. “I knew you’d break my heart.”

“I wouldn’t trade the time I spent with you for anything,” Lavellan whispered. “Dorian, I –”

And then the first wave of agony hit. Lavellan cried out wordlessly, bracing himself against the rocky ground and heaving, nothing coming up except a thick trickle of blood. Tears pricked at his eyes as he waited for the spinning sensation to end, except it never did. He found himself on his back suddenly, with Dorian holding his head up, looking more terrified than Lavellan had ever seen him. “Lavellan? Stay with me. That’s it, breathe, please just keep breathing –” His hand flexed uselessly over Lavellan’s chest. “If I had my magic…” he whispered bitterly.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Lavellan said, and though he tried to touch Dorian’s face his arm would not obey his mind’s commands. “You were always pretty shit at healing anyway.”

“You still kept me around,” Dorian retorted, stroking his hair back from his clammy brow. “Maker knows why, but I’m so glad you did.”

“You’re pretty,” Lavellan said with a little snort. “Your sheer radiance intimidates enemies, obviously.”

Dorian flushed. “You’re not bad on the eyes yourself, amatus,” he murmured.

“What does that mean, what you just called me?” Lavellan asked, trying desperately to fight off the stabbing pain threatening to bubble up and over. His vision was going in and out, but through it all Dorian was there, and that was all that mattered.

“Amatus?” Dorian took a shaky breath. “It means ‘one I love.’ Because…because you are. Maker, you _are_.”

“Amatus,” Lavellan repeated faintly. “My amatus…”

“Your pronunciation,” Dorian teased, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Lavellan thought he might cry again. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad – his tears were beautiful, after all.

“I suppose I should call you vhenan, then,” Lavellan mused, near-delirious. “Or ma’arlath…ara’len…arasha…or maybe just Dorian.”

“Whatever you want,” Dorian said, lifting him up slightly, until his upper body was cradled in Dorian’s arms. “Just don’t leave me, Echo.”

“You need to…tell Varric what happened. For the story,” Lavellan added. “Tell him I’m sorry about the ending.”

“Lavellan,” Dorian said, choked, “you can tell him yourself –”

“Tell Nira goodbye for me…and tell Cassandra…and Sera…that I’m sorry; I’m sorry I wasn’t the Herald they thought I was –”

“Shhh,” Dorian whispered, pressing a kiss to his feverish forehead. “You are. You’re everything they expected and more, Echo.”

Lavellan was struggling to breathe. “Take my hand,” he pleaded, and Dorian reached for it quickly, but Lavellan shook his head. “N-no – when I’m gone, I mean. Cut it off.”

Dorian stared at him. “Echo –”

“You can still defeat Corypheus,” Lavellan told him. The Mark crackled, casting sickly green light across Dorian’s drawn, dismayed face. “Make sure he doesn’t…get his hands on it. Heh.”

Dorian was not amused. “I’m not going to dismember you, fasta vass –”

“Yes, you are,” Lavellan said firmly. “That was an order. And…and when you’ve done that…burn my body. I’ve seen too many reanimated dead to want to be buried,” he chuckled weakly.

Dorian was speechless. Lavellan had only a moment to revel in that rare phenomenon before pain wracked his body again, stinging up his spine, immobilizing him, more blood coming up, staining his lips and chin. Something inside of him was broken, and could not be fixed. And fenhedis, it hurt. His nerves screamed but his own mouth could not articulate the agony, only a soft whimper slipping out. Dorian held him to his chest, trembling, and Lavellan listened to his heartbeat – fast, strong, alive. Good. He had made his choice.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, nearly unintelligible. “Dorian...”

Dorian shook his head. “Stay,” he begged. “Don’t you dare –”

His vision darkened and warped, and maybe that was why he saw the shadow leaning over him, over the two of them, watching. Its lips moved. _Let go._

“Take my hand,” Lavellan whispered one last time, and Dorian did; he held it so tightly it hurt.

“Amatus…”

Lavellan felt strange. Light. The pain was fading; everything was fading, and when he looked up at Dorian he knew it would be for the last time. “I love you,” he said, his grip on Dorian’s hand loosening, the shadow looming, his heart shuddering, stuttering, stopping.

Dorian’s tears fell against his lips, but he could no longer taste them.

*

Dorian felt it the exact moment Lavellan slipped away. It was about the same time that his heart broke.

He’d never seen Lavellan as fragile before, but cradled in his arms, limp and still, the dead Inquisitor felt like little more than a delicate doll, his glassy golden eyes staring at nothing. Dorian made a sound somewhere between a sob and a cry, loud enough that he was certain their captors must’ve heard him and would come running any second to gloat, or whatever it was that they planned to do.

Maybe they would try to take his body. Dorian closed his eyes. No. They’d taken enough. He would not let them. But how could he stop them? He was still collared, useless. Maybe they would try to make him Tranquil; permanently collared and useless. Maybe that would be easier, if it meant he wouldn’t feel anything anymore.

He knelt with Lavellan in his arms, waiting for the clatter of armor outside, but there was only pressing, suffocating silence. He was truly all alone. Dorian looked down at Lavellan again – no, no, it wasn’t Lavellan anymore, it was just a shadow, an empty husk, but it was all he had left of his amatus, so he clung to it desperately.

The Mark, sure enough, still sparked and glowed between their joined hands, and Dorian felt a sudden surge of loathing towards it. The damned Mark was the first thing most people had seen when they looked at Lavellan, and yet it was just a parasite, a remnant of a deadly ritual that Lavellan had accidentally gotten himself tangled up in.

Solas said it was immeasurably powerful. Dorian didn’t care; that meant nothing if it wasn’t powerful enough to save Lavellan’s life. Trembling, he touched Lavellan’s still-warm face, gently brushing a thumb over those unnerving blank orbs, closing his eyes forever. It was a little easier to look at him after that – Dorian could almost pretend he was sleeping, if not for his motionless chest and bloodied mouth. Dorian frowned, and used the hem of his tunic to wipe the scarlet away. He didn’t even want to think about how much Lavellan must’ve been bleeding out internally. He didn’t want to think about how much pain he must have felt.

Dorian had seen plenty of corpses; he was a necromancer, after all. He’d never much minded them before. But this…this was different. Those had been strangers, people he’d never even seen before in life. It was all too easy to cast their humanity aside in favor of academic curiosity. They were essentially just bags of skin, blood and bone, nothing more – vessels to be used and discarded.

But Dorian was not ready to accept that was all that remained of the man he loved. So he stayed, even as the warmth left Lavellan and the stiffness set into his limbs. Dorian half-hoped that his own throat would start that tell-tale prickle again, that his chest would tighten with coughs and he would bleed as Lavellan had, but the antidote worked like a charm. Other than feeling completely and utterly numb inside, he was fine.

He must have drifted off at some point, because he was startled awake by a rumbling sound that was slowly increasing in volume, followed by several screams and shouts, and the unmistakable roar of battle. Dorian sat up, eyes wide, clutching the Inquisitor’s body. The loud rumbling drew closer, and then there was a resounding _BOOM_ from right outside the cave. Dorian’s heart pounded as the door was all but smashed in, squinting into the sudden brightness with blind terror.

“Boss? Dorian? You two alright in – oh. Oh, shit.” The Qunari hurried inside, heaving his greatsword over his shoulder and approaching cautiously, eyes fixed on the motionless Lavellan. “Boss?”

Dorian stared dimly at him, still not letting go. “Blightcap essence,” he forced out.

Bull cursed, and Dorian flinched back when the Qunari leaned down and reached out, touching the heavy collar, his mouth twisting furiously. “They gave you a Saarebas collar? Those bastards…I feel way better about bashing their skulls in now.”

“There’s a lock –” Dorian started to say, but Bull just grunted, grabbed a knife from his belt that Dorian instantly recognized as Lavellan’s dagger, and sliced the leather in two. Dorian gasped, eyes brimming with tears as he felt the Fade come rushing back, and all his magic with it. Almost against his own volition, his palms started to glow with healing magic, cupped around Lavellan’s face. Nothing happened, of course. There was nothing left to heal.

Bull shook his head. “Dorian…”

“I just,” Dorian stammered, “I just thought, maybe, I could –”

“He’s gone,” Bull replied, his voice thick. “Nothing anyone can do now.”

There was a last cry from the Tomb and then Cassandra came running in, armor splattered with gore. “Inquisitor! Your dragon led us to –”

She stumbled to a halt several feet away from his body, eyes wide and shocked. Disbelieving. “Dorian?” she whispered, voice trembling with bewilderment and anger. “What…what is the meaning of this?!”

Dorian’s thoughts were jumbled; all the words came tumbling out at once, the whole story in stuttered, disjointed sentences, so impossible to recall when Cassandra was staring at Lavellan like she’d just lost everything. In a way, he supposed she had. But not like Dorian had. Not like Lavellan had.

“He told me to tell you he was sorry,” Dorian added, looking away. “And he wanted me to cut his hand off.” He laughed weakly. “The Mark’s still there, so that’s really all that matters, right?”

Cassandra covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Then she crumpled, her shoulders shaking with sobs, hiding her face. Bull sighed and wrapped an arm around her, his own horned head bowed respectfully. Dorian looked down at Lavellan. _This is all your fault, you idiot,_ he wanted to joke, but there was no laughter in him anymore.

Bull eyed him with something like pity. “C’mon, Dorian, let’s get you out of here. I can carry the Inquisitor –”

A screech tore through the air, paired with the furious scratching of claws on stone. Cassandra lifted her head, wiping a hand quickly across her face and looking up. “The dragon,” she breathed. “She’s…”

“Trying to get in,” Bull finished, just before the ceiling collapsed on them.

Dorian’s half-formed barrier saved them from being entirely crushed, but nothing could have saved them from the winged creature of sheer grief and rage that descended upon them, smashing through several feet of solid rock, scales tearing and wings ripping, fire blazing all around.

A rock had struck Dorian’s temple, blood blurring his vision, but he crawled forward, trying to get to Lavellan’s body – the force of Nira’s impact had tossed him like a ragdoll halfway across the room, and he lay pale and lifeless amidst the Tomb’s dark rubble, the Mark crackling weakly. Bull and Cassandra were even farther away, coughing on dust and struggling to their feet.

Dorian reached out, about to grab Lavellan’s arm, when Nira landed in the destroyed cave directly over his amatus’s body. Dorian froze, gazing up at her, and she snarled, wings beating the air and teeth dripping with molten embers. There was no affection in her fiery eyes, and not even the slightest glimmer of recognition.

She was a high dragon, and he would be a fool to forget it. Especially now that her Inquisitor was dead.

But he slowly got up, hands raised, taking a step closer to her. “Nira,” he murmured, “please, it’s…it’s alright, we’re all…upset –”

She growled, nostrils flaring and body lowering. Dorian’s eyes darted down, frantic. She could crush Lavellan in a second if she wanted to. Bull and Cassandra were watching warily. But Dorian was determined. Lavellan had shown him there was more to dragons than raw, primal, force. In fact, Dorian was quite certain that in her own way, Nira had loved Lavellan. He had been the only parent she’d ever known, after all. And now…now he was gone. And she knew that. She knew that, and she was _scared_. She was alone – or she thought she was.

“We’re your family too, Nira,” Dorian said quietly. “We’ll be your family now. Even if Lavellan is dead –”

He only got her anguished howl as warning before he was bathed in dragonfire, and he would have been reduced to a pile of ash had he not raised a barrier in time, the heat flowing around him, singing his hair and clothes, smoke stinging his eyes. Then, as soon as it had started, it ceased. Cassandra shouted, and Dorian saw her break free from Bull, towards the dragon that was…taking flight?

Unsteadily, Dorian stood, going once more towards Lavellan’s body.

Except it wasn’t there anymore.

“No,” Cassandra whispered, falling to her knees, soot-stained face turned to the heavens. “It’s over,” she said. “This is the end for us all.”

The Qunari limped over, exhaustion finally taking its toll on him. “Goodbye, boss,” Bull said grimly, clearing his throat gruffly before turning away.

Dorian said nothing. All he could do was watch Nira carry Echo Lavellan’s corpse and its Mark far, far away, until the vast night sky swallowed them up among the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes are the end of this chapter, for, uh...obvious spoiler reasons. Sorry?
> 
> Quick language thing - the Venatori dude called Dorian 'pathice,' which comes from the Latin adjective pathicus which pretty much means he likes sex with dudes in the most unflattering way possible. (thus, dorian was not pleased.) Servus is 'slave,' obviously. Ma'arlath is 'my love,' ara'len is basically 'my (male) other half,' and 'arasha' is 'my happiness.' (Probably all your arasha is gone after this chapter, huh?)
> 
> On that note, if you're a morbid nerd like me, the poison used to kill Lavellan (blightcap) was partly based on the poison in death caps, α-amanitin (liver/kidney failure oh boy) and muscarine (in those pretty red/white shrooms, causes respiratory failure/cardiac arrest). And yes, it was the same thing Maddox used to kill himself canonically! It all just comes together, doesn't it?
> 
> Hey, you wanted them to make up. Done! Wait, what do you mean this wasn't what you meant at all?  
> The end is nigh, guys. Thanks for the continued love.


	18. Chapter 18

“Dorian, stop!” Lavellan laughed, squirming atop him, eyes squeezed shut and nose wrinkled up adorably. “That tickles!”

Dorian grinned and kept kissing lightly along his ears despite the elf’s giggly protests, because the sound of his laughter, uncontrolled and unashamed, was something rare and precious indeed. “Why would I, when you clearly love it so much?”

Lavellan’s lips quirked up and he leaned forward ‘til their noses brushed, his body a warm and sturdy weight over Dorian. “Not nearly as much as I love you, though.” The room was bathed in early-morning sunlight, painting Lavellan’s freckled skin an incandescent gold, so bright against Dorian’s copper. His gaze was soft, sweet, and when Lavellan kissed him it was perfect –

Too perfect.

Dorian pulled back abruptly, staring at Lavellan’s lips. The scar was missing. Then he remembered, he remembered everything, and bile rose in his throat as he glared at the demon, angrier at himself more than anything. “Very clever,” Dorian said, “you almost had me convinced. But there’s always something.”

The demon tilted its head, calculating and smug. “I’ll get it right someday, just you wait.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Dorian hissed.

But the demon just smirked. “A bit of an empty threat when I’m still sitting in your lap, don’t you think?”

Dorian shoved it off, shaking his head. “Drop the act now, or I’ll make you.”

“Oh, please.” The demon rolled its eyes. “You and I both know you couldn’t bear to hurt anything wearing your amatus’s face, Dorian. And besides…it’s not just his face. I have his body, too.” The demon stepped close, pressing itself along his front, lashes lowered. “I know you want to lay with him again – I can give you that.”

“You’re not him,” Dorian whispered harshly, turning his face away. “He’s dead.”

“But dead things must not always be so,” it crooned. “You know that better than most, necromancer. With your power and mine…we could bring him back, Dorian. He could be yours again.”

Dorian shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “Oh, wonderful idea. I’ll reanimate the Inquisitor’s corpse and become even more unpopular than I am already – oh, wait! His body is missing, probably half-eaten by a dragon at this point. But thank you for the brilliant suggestion, how incredibly thoughtful of you.”

The demon just shrugged, still smirking. “Do what you wish. But I know what you desire, Dorian Pavus – better yet, I know what you _love_.” Its fingertips traced over his jaw, light and teasing. “If you truly want to bring him back –” Then the demon froze.

Dorian stepped away, folding his arms. “What are you playing at now?”

The demon looked around, tense, and to Dorian’s utter bewilderment it shifted quickly back into its true form, tail flicking anxiously behind it, dark eyes wide. “I cannot help you,” the demon said hurriedly. Then it vanished without another word.

Dorian awoke alone, motes of sunlight drifting down through the space between the heavy velvet drapes which stayed closed more often than not, these days. Dorian closed his eyes with a soft, shuddering breath, turning his face against the pillows and wishing he could remember what Lavellan smelled like – a small thing, a stupid thing maybe, but it had been a week and already those memories were fading. Everything about Dorian was fading, too.

He got out of bed slowly, listless, dreading the day ahead. He had returned from the Wastes with Cassandra and Bull three days ago, making the journey on horseback with barely any sleep, and no stops. They’d been forced to leave Lavellan’s dracolisk behind at the main Wastes camp, where the Inquisition scouts were the first to hear the bad news. They’d tried to keep brave faces, but their panic had been palpable. It had just gotten worse from there.

They’d arrived at Skyhold amidst celebration that quickly turned to confusion when they saw the party of three, all exhausted and unsmiling. Cullen had met them at the gates, brow furrowed, where Cassandra told him the news in clipped, low syllables. The Commander had shaken his head, swallowing hard. “We’ll send out search parties,” he’d promised, ever the professional. But later that night, Dorian saw him on the ramparts, head in his hands, praying to a Maker whom Dorian had begun to doubt even cared.

Josephine had been playing the Game for many years, but her grief was so great it was hard to hide. When she came running with Leliana to the courtyard, hair all astray and eyes round and scared, Cullen had passed on the news and Josephine had whispered a broken sentence in Antivan, her hands trembling. “We…we will have to explain this to our allies eventually,” she’d murmured. “We will have to explain this to…to the _world_ …” She’d sniffled, and bowed her head stiffly. “Funeral arrangements will have to be made. Even without the body…a memorial of some kind…”

Leliana had inhaled sharply as the ambassador departed, and for a moment Dorian had seen true emotion flit across her normally impassive face. “First the Divine and now this,” she’d murmured. “Maker, what is it that you want from us?” She’f frowned. “I suppose he has no family left to contact. We should not let this news spread too much…Corypheus may see it as an ideal time to strike. Because it is.”

On that cheery note, she’d left the battered party standing amongst a gathering crowd of bewildered, frightened people.

And today those people would finally know the whole truth. Dorian would be the one to tell them – he’d tried to convince the advisors to choose someone else, but he’d been the only other person with Lavellan when it happened, after all. They already knew their Inquisitor was dead. That had been found out the day they’d gotten back. Dorian had locked himself in his room for most of the day – the people were angry, and he had no doubt they would try to blame him.

He blamed himself, after all. If only he’d made Lavellan take the antidote first…they’d be mourning a ‘Vint, not the last Inquisitor and the Savior of Thedas. Dorian would bet there would be far less black hanging around the castle.

With that sobering thought, he crossed the room to the wardrobe and pulled open the top drawer.

There was a huge black snake coiled among his breeches. Dorian barely held back his shriek, recoiling and eying the serpent warily. It hissed softly, eyes opening – wonderful, it had been asleep. In his pants. He knew exactly who to blame for this.

“One of Sera’s friends, are you?” Dorian asked the snake, arms folded. Its tongue flicked out lazily, and when it lifted its head he saw the dark orange throat and relaxed slightly – it was just an indigo snake, common enough in Ferelden – one of the few reptiles able to stand the horrifically low temperatures here, and not nearly as deadly as the snakes back home (both literal and metaphorical). He was fairly certain the only things they ate were nugs, and pretty much everything ate nugs. But he still wasn’t all that keen on picking it up.

Then he was struck with an idea, and for the first time in what felt like months, he smiled a little. “My sincerest apologies,” he told the snake, which was regarding him with mild irritation. “But I have a very important speech to deliver today, and I can’t let any accidental snake bites slow me down.” Then he flicked his wrist with a burst of violet light and a few seconds later, a fat black nug sat in the snake’s place. It squeaked in alarm and promptly fell over. Suddenly having legs probably took some getting used to.

“Much better,” Dorian said, pleased, and scooped it up under his arm, setting it down on the floor.

He made the snake-turned-nug stay put as he got dressed, his attire significantly darker than usual. The mage tower was quiet, and only Minaeve greeted him as he passed. The stairwell was cold and shadowy, and for once Dorian was glad to be in Solas’s room as the walls brightened with detailed murals and the ceiling soared. It reminded him a bit of the Fade, for some reason. Perhaps that was the point.

Solas was at his desk in the middle, studying a huge text intently. Dorian cleared his throat. When Solas looked up, the elf seemed…uneasy? On edge? He straightened up, raising an eyebrow. “Yes? Was there something you wanted?” His tone was as irritated as ever.

Dorian frowned. “I can see you’re deep in mourning,” he said.

Solas’s mouth twitched. “I do not see how mourning would help anyone,” he said shortly, turning back to his text.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t see how reading ancient manuscripts would help anyone, but perhaps you’re onto something, Solas! Do tell me when you discover the secret to cheating death!”

Solas sighed. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry, Dorian. It is tragic that the Mark was lost –”

“The Mark?!” Dorian snapped. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Nevermind that Lavellan is dead –”

“They might as well be one in the same,” Solas interrupted sharply. “The Inquisitor’s death means all of our deaths if we cannot figure out where Nira took his body. So forgive me for attempting to solve that problem while there is still time to do so.”

Dorian looked warily at the book. “Have you found any answers yet?”

Solas grimaced. “Yes, but they are not ones I like very much.”

“Good luck, then,” Dorian offered, too tired to argue any further. “We can use all the help we can get.”

Solas inclined his head, and went back to his book, brow furrowing anxiously.

When Dorian left the mage tower, nug in tow, the rest of the castle reflected the same darkness – there was a subdued grimness about it all, from the black Inquisition banners to the unnerving silence, and Dorian gave the whispering clusters of people out in the courtyard a wide berth. They looked at him as if he were the snake. He lowered his head and hurried towards the tavern.

The place was eerily quiet, though there were plenty of people inside – but it was as if all the laughter had been drained away, and even drunkenness couldn’t quite restore it. Bull and his Chargers were there, playing cards with uncharacteristic quietness, and Bull tried to catch his gaze but Dorian looked away resolutely, going up the stairs without a word.

Cole met him at the top, sitting on the bannister, legs swinging back and forth, back and forth.

“Ah,” Dorian said tiredly. “Hello, Cole. If you’re about to tell me how terrible things are inside my head or simply in general, please refrain. I’m well aware. Everything is awful, good day to you.”

Cole blinked, perplexed. He slowly pointed to the nug. “The snake is not happy,” he said very seriously.

Dorian snorted. The nug looked at him reproachfully. “Yes, well. I was not happy to find it in my wardrobe, so I think the feeling’s mutual. Sera’s work, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Cole whispered, eyes dark and doleful. “She’s sad, mad, doesn’t understand why, lashes out. Crying, laughing, cursing, asking _why, why him, shite, wasn’t supposed to end like this_ –”

“Please,” Dorian said. “Don’t. I know, Cole. Say…if she tries to murder me when I return this to her, will you lend me a hand?”

“You have plenty of hands, Dorian,” Cole said, tilting his head before vanishing.

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Or not.” He patted the nug’s head. “I believe we’re on our own, then.” He strode across the creaking floorboards, hesitating before knocking on Sera’s door. There was a hole in the wood, presumably where a dagger had been thrown into it, and he sucked in a breath before looking cautiously through it. Sera’s eye blinked right back at him and he swore and stumbled back. “Venhedis, don’t do that!”

“Then don’t go peepin’ on me, Fancypants,” Sera snapped. “Get lost.”

“I believe you misplaced something in my quarters,” Dorian said stubbornly. “Sera. Let me in.”

She let out a barked of half-crazed laughter. “Not a friggin’ chance!”

“I miss him too, you know.”

Sera’s fists smacked into the wood from the other side. Dorian didn’t budge. “No, you friggin’ don’t, arseface,” she mumbled thickly. “He told me everything that happened, y’know. Stopped me from puttin’ biting lizards in your breeches. Think I shoulda just done it anyway, now. So I figured, snakes. Can’t go wrong with snakes.”

“It wasn’t even a venomous one,” Dorian replied, his own voice slightly choked. “Bit of an oversight on your part, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well. Didn’t…didn’t want another dead friend. Kinda done with that shite.” She was quiet for a moment. “’Spose you can come in if you really want to,” she added.

Dorian paused, then opened the door. Sera had moved to the window seat, knees curled to her chest, leaning against the windows with her back to him. The nug squeaked loudly and Sera turned her head slightly, staring at it with blatant bewilderment. “Your snake,” Dorian said primly, setting it down on the pillows stacked in the corner. It quickly tried to dash away from him, but tripped over its own paws and rolled onto its unfortunate-looking face, landing inches away from Sera.

She squinted at him suspiciously. “You just had to shit your weird magic all over it, huh?” But when the nug made a pitiful sound and edged closer, her expression softened. “Better like this, though. Vivi sends back nasty things, like centipedes. Don’t like centipedes. Too many leggies.” Sera poked the nug’s side. It snuffled at her hand.

“What…what did Lavellan tell you?” Dorian asked, not daring to sit down. He was certain Sera still had some daggers up her sleeve.

Sera’s shoulders slumped. Her voice was tight when she replied. “Said you cheated. Said he thought he wasn’t good enough for you.” She sneered. “He was way too good for you, arseface.”

“I know,” Dorian agreed, guilt heavy in his words. “Trust me, Sera, I know. He was…he was the best thing that ever happened to me, as terribly cliché as that sounds.”

“So you made him think he was worthless?!” Sera retorted, practically spitting. “Yeah, good friggin’ job, Dorian.”

“No,” Dorian whispered, swallowing hard. “Sera, I never betrayed him. I never…I told him the truth, before he…it was _me_ who wasn’t good enough. That’s why I let him believe I…” He exhaled shakily. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Fat lot of good it did in the end anyway.”

“What did you tell him?” Sera asked, brow furrowed, eyes shiny.

“I told him I loved him,” Dorian sighed. “And that he was a bloody bastard. Among other things.” _Amatus. My amatus…_

“He loved you too,” Sera said bluntly. “Y’know what he said to me? He said he wanted people to know ‘bout you and him. Yeah, he wanted to make it all official. But you told him you were friggin’ leaving, arseface.” Her glare faded into sadness. “Guess you can leave now, if you still want. Think I might go back to Val Royeaux soon – might as well wait out the end of the world somewhere pretty.”

“He asked me to go back to Tevinter,” Dorian said, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. “It was practically his dying wish.”

“Yeah,” Sera muttered, “he would’ve let you go before, y’know. He would’ve done anything for you. Guess he did, and now he’s dead.”

“I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” Dorian whispered.

Sera looked at him for a long while with a strangely somber expression. Then she said, “You’re giving that speech tonight, yeah? For him? His, his...eulog-thingy?”

“Eulogy,” Dorian corrected. “Yes.”

“Tell ‘em then,” Sera said. “Make it official.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, panicked. “What?! Sera, I can’t just tell everyone that we were –”

“Yeah, you can,” Sera pushed. “It’s…it’s what he would’ve wanted. He loved that shite – romantic crap, gifts, love letters, yeah? You ever write him a love letter?”

Dorian looked away. “No.”

“Then here’s your chance,” she murmured. “He deserves it. Maybe he’ll even hear it somehow, yeah? But all those people out there? They’ll hear it for sure. They’ll know. Make them _remember_ him, Dorian.”

_Don’t forget me._

Dorian found himself nodding. “I’ll…I’ll try. For him.”

Sera smiled, too sharp, but close enough. “Knew you weren’t all bad, Fancypants.” She patted the nug and looked up, more serious than he’d ever seen her. “Make him proud, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dorian promised.

*

Dorian had never quite realized the sheer number of people who lived in Skyhold. They stood, all of them, in a black sea of troubled faces below him. Cassandra was speaking, explaining what had happened with an impressively steady voice, continuing on even as the crowd began to gasp and weep, the sounds of disbelieving sadness filling the night. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine stood behind Dorian, silent, and as Cassandra’s voice began to falter, the Commander touched Dorian’s shoulder carefully.

Dorian turned, his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes?”

“Are you ready?” Cullen asked.

“No,” Dorian said with a dull laugh, but he stepped forward anyway as Cassandra turned away, her eyes downcast and face gaunt. The shifting, shocked people silenced abruptly when Dorian took her place, hands clasped behind his back to hide their tremor. Instantly, he saw their uneasiness, their lips forming familiar words – _traitor, spy, magister, snake_.

He steeled himself. For Lavellan. Dorian took a deep breath, and let the words come to him.

“Two years ago,” he started, “an idiotic magister playing at being a god ripped open the sky. And all of us would’ve perished right then and there if not for what seemed to be, at first, a happy little accident. You probably knew him. His name was Lavellan, and he was a Dalish elf with a hand that glowed and a heart that was always far too big for his own good.” The crowd had started to settle, some of the enmity leaving their eyes. Cheered by this, he forced himself to continue.

“You all called him your Herald, the Herald of Andraste. What a pretty title that is, but nobody seemed to really stop and consider that his gods were not your own; he didn’t believe in the Maker and in fact, he doubted the existence of the elvhen gods too. Yet he took it all in stride. He had no fucking clue what he was doing; I can assure you of that – but from the looks of things…he did alright.” Dorian gestured grandly to the castle around them, and a few smiles lit up in the crowd. “So many people saw him only as the Inquisitor, as an untouchable, godlike creature with a Mark that could save the world. But truly, he was just a man. A very, very good man – but just a mortal man, in the end. I was with him, in the end. I…I was with him before that, too.”

The silence was so immense you could hear a pin drop. Dorian could see their faces harden, darken, brows lowering and eyes narrowing, lips tightening in blatant disapproval. It was an expression he’d seen far too often in his life – mostly on his father, but on his mother, too; on Alexius when he’d refused to join his cult, on Felix when he’d run away with a coward, on Lavellan when they’d fought, and now on all the people of the Inquisition. But this time, he was determined to change it – if not for his own sake, then for Lavellan’s. So he continued.

“I know there were rumors, that was…to be expected. People see things and they draw assumptions – they see a Tevinter mage and assume they’re an evil magister; they see a Dalish elf and assume they’re a savage, for example. But believe me, even if I had turned out to be the evil magister you all seem to think I am, his dragon would’ve burnt me to a crisp before I could so much as lay a finger on him. She was bonded to him in a way I think none of us can truly understand. Lavellan…had that effect on people, you see – he inspired loyalty, and even love, all across Thedas.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

Dorian’s voice rose. “But I doubt many of you even knew our Inquisitor’s name. It was Echo. I doubt you knew his entire clan was wiped out – his parents, his friends – and he continued to lead us all to victory after victory despite this. And even as our Inquisitor lay dying…he thought of us, of all the people he would leave behind. You know what he said to me, as he was drawing his last breath? Take my hand, he said. When I’m gone, cut it off.” Dorian shook his head. “It was not Inquisitor Echo Lavellan’s strength, glory, or even his dragon that made him great. It was his complete and utter selflessness.” Dorian bowed his head. “That is why he sacrificed himself for me – and I know you’d all rather see him standing here in my place. So would I. But we do not get to choose nor change our fates, just as we do not get to choose whom we love, or what happens to them.”

Everyone was listening. The whispers had ceased altogether.

“I don’t know if we’ll find our Inquisitor,” he said honestly, shaking his head. “I can promise you all nothing, except that wherever he is, Lavellan is probably still trying to fix things without any regard for his own wellbeing – because he cared, he cared so much about all of you and all of _this_ that he was willing to die for it from the very beginning. I only wish he didn’t actually have to.” Dorian raised his chin slightly. “But this is not a world where wishes are granted just from wanting them to be so. That is why we will search, and pray, and seek to find our Inquisitor and his dragon or die trying. He made the same vow to us, after all.”

An unexpected cheer rose up from the crowd, growing in volume until it was a mighty cry, a little bit broken and a little bit sad but mostly bursting with hope that shook Dorian to his core.

When the cheer had died down, Dorian finished, his voice softer, drained, as he looked out at the castle draped in shadows and misery, and all the people within it who, for the first time he could remember, looked at him with something other than fear and mistrust. “What I see here now is grief; grief of the blackest, deepest, truest kind. Our Inquisitor’s death is like an open wound, a raw vulnerability that sends us running to cover it up with all the black attire we own, as if that will help somehow. But he wouldn’t want us to wallow in our own misery like this, to turn Skyhold into the largest mausoleum ever built. He would want us to remember his victories, not his failures – to rejoice at what was, to come together, and to remember fondly the Dalish archer and how he saved us all, time and time again.”

Dorian raised his hand up to the heavens. “We will never forget you, Inquisitor.”

As light ignited in his palm, the crowd shifted uneasily – this was the South, after all, where magic was feared, even in this harmless form. But he moved his fingers, and the light split off into a dozen others, golden orbs like tiny suns lifting from his hand towards the distant stars, as if to join them. The crowd’s fear turned to awe as Vivienne, Solas, and Morrigan, standing among them, lifted their own hands, more golden lights floating up, up, up. And slowly the other mages joined them, until the air was aglow with lights for their Inquisitor, as bright and warm as his eyes had once been as they danced through the night, casting their radiance on the black banners and cloaks, banishing the darkness if only for a little while.

Dorian watched the last of the lights swirl away with a lump in his throat. “I love you,” he said softly to the stars, wondering if his amatus had joined them. He pressed a hand to his heart. “Always.”

*

The somberness remained, but it was lighter than before, somehow, and Dorian received far more smiles than scowls as he quietly departed from the feast Josephine had organized in Lavellan’s honor. There was something that had been bothering him, something he needed to do. So he left the main castle, descending into Skyhold’s depths, past the vaults and down to the dungeon. It had been fortified and repaired somewhat since the arrival of new enemies, but Dorian was only there for one of them.

Samson was slouched against the rusty bars of his cell, long hair hanging in greasy strings in front of his haggard face, which was sprouting whiskers. He appeared to be lost in thought, startled out of his daze when Dorian asked the cell guards, “A moment alone, if you please?”

They frowned at him. “Ser, we should not leave our posts –”

“A moment. Please.”

They hesitated, but inclined their heads and left, the door shutting with a click behind them. Dorian turned back to Samson, who was watching him with interest from bloodshot eyes. Dorian glowered at him, stepping closer and folding his arms. “We need to talk.”

Samson chuckled, a dry, rasping, ugly sound. “The Tevinter. An interesting one, to be sure. So, have you come to see what rewards you could reap by helping my master achieve his glory –”

Dorian raised his hand, unflinching. Samson’s words cut off abruptly, turning into a gurgle as his throat constricted. “Here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to fucking answer them. Simple enough. Understand?” Eyes bulging, Samson nodded, and Dorian released him.

The ex-Templar rubbed his neck ruefully. “They don’t bloody teach _that_ to mages here.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “No? Well, maybe they should. First question – who is Helena?”

Samson grinned, teeth yellowed. “She found you, didn’t she.” His grin widened. “Did she do it? Did she –”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Dorian warned, fingers curling.

Samson gulped. “Alright, alright! She’s Maddox’s lover from Kirkwall, she was made Tranquil with him, but her friends helped her reverse the Rite with a Spirit of Justice.” He grimaced. “It half-worked. She got her magic back, but not her self – the spirit took over, magnified all the injustices in her life or something like that, I don’t know; so she got obsessed with fixing them all.” He eyed Dorian warily. “Satisfied?”

“Hardly. Next question – is she working with Corypheus?”

“No,” Samson said quickly. Dorian sighed and snapped his fingers, blocking the man’s airway again.

“Liar. She had reinforcements – Red Templars and Venatori. Why?”

Gasping, Samson shook his head. “She wasn’t, she wasn’t – she was with Maddox and all of us at the Temple before you ruined everything! Those soldiers were assigned to her by Corypheus, but she wasn’t acting on his orders!”

Dorian paused. “Whose orders was she acting on, then?”

Samson wavered, a bead of sweat running down his brow. Dorian raised his hand and he cringed. “I don’t know, the bitch was crazy, she kept having dreams about some…some fucking _shadow man_ who wanted her to kill the Inquisitor –”

Dorian stilled, blood running cold. “Shadow man?”

“Had to be a demon, maybe Vengeance or Pride –”

“No,” Dorian muttered, “if she was possessed by a spirit, it wouldn’t let a demon anywhere near her.”

“Then I don’t know!” Samson growled. “What the fuck else could it be?”

Dorian didn’t know, either. “I appreciate your compliance,” he said dully, waving a hand and effectively erasing the last five minutes from Samson’s life. The man’s eyes fell shut and he slumped fully against the bars with a loud snore.

Dorian sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had no doubt that shadow was the same one that had apparently haunted Lavellan’s dreams. It _had_ wanted something from him. It had wanted him to die. And now…now he was dead. And so was Helena. Dorian didn’t yet know what that meant, exactly, but it made him deeply uneasy.

Dorian walked towards the edge of the half-destroyed dungeon floor, staring down at the roaring waterfall cascading into oblivion, half-frozen in the glacial mountain air. He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he’d been here, alone with Lavellan on his birthday. It seemed so long ago. Dorian took another step forward, until he was on the very edge of the wooden scaffolding.

It was all too easy to recall the sounds Lavellan had made, how soft and warm and pliant he’d been in his arms, eyes wide and desperate, throat pale and endless in the moonlight. _Just you. Only you._ And Dorian had meant it – it had been here, then, when he had truly fallen, when he had looked at the Inquisitor and realized with a mix of horror and delight that he, Dorian Pavus, was in love.

He wondered when Lavellan had known. He wished he could ask him.

The wind curled around his ankles, enticing.

Then the door to the dungeon swung open, and Dorian blinked, turning to look. He’d expected the guards, but instead it was Cassandra who strode in, cross expression becoming panicked as she saw him. “Dorian?”

Dorian smiled weakly at her. “Hello, Seeker.”

“What are you _doing_?!” she cried as she all but ran to him, genuine fear in her eyes.

Dorian looked down, and took a small step away from the edge. “Oh, that. Apologies. I wasn’t going to throw myself off it, if that’s what you’re implying. Far too messy – and it would be a terrible shame to lose this handsome face, don’t you think? I suspect the sharp rocks would really do a number on it.”

Cassandra reached his side, brow furrowed but a small, sad smile on her lips. “ _Dorian._ ”

He waved a hand. “Oh, very well, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. How could I not?” He snorted bitterly. “It’s been that sort of week. On the whole, however, I’m managing. To be quite honest, I’m impressed I haven’t drunk myself into a stupor by now. Isn’t that remarkable?”

Cassandra frowned, and then she reached out and took Dorian’s hand in her own with a soft sigh. Dorian blinked, staring dumbly at their joined hands. She squeezed once. “He would be proud of you,” she said, looking at him intently. “You spoke well for him. Much better than I ever could have. I am glad we chose you, Dorian. You…you knew him much better than I thought.” She looked down, abashed. “I did not know his name was Echo.”

“He didn’t like it very much,” Dorian told her. “Didn’t think it was properly elvhen.”

“It fit him, then,” Cassandra chuckled. “He did get along with Sera, after all.” She sighed. “But still…I never thought to ask.”

“Now you know,” Dorian murmured. “Even if it is just a little too late, I’m certain he doesn’t hold it against you.”

Cassandra bit her lip. “There is…another thing. You said Nira fought off the dragon guarding the Tomb?”

Dorian nodded. “Yes. Somehow. The other dragon was enormous, and had dragonlings with it.”

Cassandra seemed even more troubled. “So there was no way she could have escaped unscathed, yes?”

“Unscathed?” Dorian blinked. “Certainly not! The other dragon had already drawn blood by the time we reached the Tomb.”

Cassandra swallowed. “There was no blood,” she whispered. “No wounds. When Nira reached us, she was fully healed…but she must have had to walk most of the way, or she would have arrived sooner.”

“Her wings were the first to bleed,” Dorian replied. “They might have been unusable…but you said she was _healed_? That can’t be right.”

“She was,” Cassandra insisted. “Even…even after she broke through the Tomb – her wings were damaged, and then they weren’t, or she couldn’t have flown far at all. It just…it just doesn’t make sense.” She sounded slightly choked, and bowed her head, closing her eyes tight. “Maker…”

“None of this makes very much sense,” Dorian murmured, squeezing her hand back. “I doubt it ever will.”

Cassandra looked up and gazed out at the mountains, expression unreadable. “You said you thought Lavellan was somewhere, still trying to fix things. Where do you think he is, Dorian?”

Dorian’s eyes lingered on the white horizon, daunted by its vastness. “Somewhere better,” he replied.

*

Lavellan really, really hated the Fade. Especially when he had no idea why he was there.

“This isn’t right,” he muttered, turning around with growing confusion as he took in his smoky, indistinct surroundings. “I died. Right?” Lavellan was pretty sure he wasn’t mistaken about that. He hadn’t possibly imagined that much pain – his chest throbbed sympathetically just thinking about it. But…if he really had died, then…was this where the dead went? Was he…?

Lavellan looked down at his own body, bracing himself for glowing or translucency or anything remotely spiritlike – and came up short. He just looked…really unsettlingly normal. The Mark was still alight on his palm and he was wearing the same clothes he’d died in. Fenhedis, _died_ in…that was going to take some getting used to. Lavellan swallowed, peering into the swirling mist cautiously. “Hello? Where am I? Anyone?”

He bit his lip in the silence that followed, not sure whether to be relieved or worried when a familiar voice finally said simply, “Yes.”

Lavellan turned to face the shadow, its shifting form emerging from the mist. “Hello? Why am I –”

The shadow stepped out of the mist fully, and suddenly it was not a shadow anymore. Lavellan froze, stumbling on his words, because in the shadow’s place stood an elf – a very tall, very beautiful elf who was smirking at him, golden eyes glittering. “Ah, that’s much better. Don’t you agree?” Without waiting for an answer, he came forward, the strange grayish light making his black braid shine an unearthly blue, painting his skin a perfect pale porcelain. But even still the shadow remained in some form, clothing him in twisting black robes.

Lavellan could only gape. “Wh-what….who…?”

He chuckled, a low, velvety sound that made Lavellan’s skin prickle. “It’s lovely to finally meet you properly, da’len.” His hands came down to rest on Lavellan’s shoulders, head cocked and lips curled in amusement. “No need to look so frightened. I am a friend, remember?”

If Lavellan had a heartbeat, it would have been racing. “Who…who are you?”

The strange elf smiled, bright and sharp, his grip on Lavellan’s shoulders tightening. “Hello, da’len. My name is Falon’Din, and I’m going to bring you back to life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wiggles eyebrows* Man, I love deux ex machinas when they're heavily foreshadowed throughout the story. (Does that still make it a deux ex machina? Wikipedia says no.)
> 
> The snake in Dorian's pants (favorite phrase ever) is based on a real snake called the Eastern Indigo Snake which is the longest snake species in the US, apparently. I like snakes, but 8 feet is...really too big for my liking. (Snake innuendos are the best innuendos.)
> 
> Thanks for all your comments (apologies for your emotions and tears) on the last chapter, they really meant a lot to me. Have a very, very happy Halloween and enjoy!


	19. Chapter 19

When Lavellan finally managed to process the ridiculous weight of that declaration, he pushed the elf’s hands off of him abruptly, shaking his head and laughing in sheer disbelief. “That’s…you almost had me, there. Falon’Din? Even if by some miracle the god of death and fortune was _real_ , the Dread Wolf locked him away with the others in the Fade!”

The elf tilted his head, eyes glittering coldly. “And where, exactly, are we now, da’len?”

Lavellan’s eyes widened, glancing around them. He chuckled nervously. “Oh, for the love of…you can’t possibly expect me to believe you’re a _god_!”

He folded his arms. “Can’t I? Think, da’len – I know there’s at least a little sense in that pretty head of yours. When did I start appearing in your dreams?”

Lavellan blinked. “I…wasn’t it after the…” He blanched. “After I nearly died in Din’an Hanin,” he whispered. “At…at an altar dedicated to Falon’Din.”

“Precisely. And the spirit you saw at said altar, who witnessed your dragon’s stunning pyrotechnics display? That was none other than myself,” Falon’Din said with a flourish. His nose wrinkled. “Or, I suppose you could say, a _shadow_ of myself.” His smile was not at all nice. “Unfortunately, it is difficult for me to appear anywhere except in my prison. Even here, the only reason I can appear to you in this form is because you are dead – and I am, after all, god of the elvhen dead.”

Lavellan exhaled, eying him warily. “Alright…so you’re Falon’Din. You’re real, like Mythal.”

“Mythal?” Falon’Din hesitated. “I…suppose. But Mythal was slain by Fen’Harel. I was never slain – just imprisoned for centuries. I know which one I’d rather choose.”

“And yet, here you are, offering to bring me back to life.” Lavellan frowned. “Forgive me, but…I really don’t think that’s possible. No magic can –”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Falon’Din interrupted, wagging a finger. “ _My_ magic can.”

Lavellan’s frown grew. “Even necromancy cannot truly –”

“Necromancy?” Falon’Din giggled, rolling his eyes. “What, you mean like the parlor tricks your vhenan throws around? Please. I won’t turn you into a mindless, shambling corpse if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That was, in fact, what Lavellan was worried about. He ignored the jibe about Dorian, and replied warily, “Well, good. So…what _are_ you going to do?”

Falon’Din regarded him with a finger on his chin. “My dear Inquisitor,” he started, “it seems that the two of us find ourselves in similarly sticky situations. I am unfairly trapped in a dreadful prison for possibly eternity, forcing me to abandon my People because of the stubborn cruelty of the Dread Wolf. You, da’len, are the only hope for a world very close to being destroyed by the stubborn cruelty of a thoughtless, power-hungry magister. And you could have saved that world…if you had not died just before the final battle could take place.”

Lavellan swallowed. “Yes, but…they have my hand, don’t they? Dorian took the Mark, like I asked?”

Falon’Din sighed. “No,” he said softly. “I’m afraid your dragon made that quite impossible for everyone.”

Lavellan’s eyes widened. “What…what do you mean?! What did Nira do?”

“In her grief and anger, she carried your body away from them,” Falon’Din murmured sadly. “Far, far away. Your Mark is lost to them – and thus, _everything_ is lost to them.”

Lavellan trembled, shaking his head. “I can’t…I didn’t know that…oh, fenedhis, this is all my fault!”

Falon’Din shrugged. “There is a way that both of our problems can be solved, da’len. Two birds with one stone, if you will.”

“What? What is it?”

“There’s really no other way to say it, I’m afraid.” Falon’Din bit his lip. “You let me possess you.”

Lavellan stared at him, unsure he’d heard correctly. “I. What?! No!”

Falon’Din raised an eyebrow. “No? So you _want_ the world to be reduced to ashes and ruins?”

“That wouldn’t bring me back to life!” Lavellan protested. “That would just give you my body as a vessel.” He made a face. “A very empty, slowly decaying vessel.”

“In the case of a spirit or demon, you would be correct,” Falon’Din conceded. “But I am neither of those, da’len. I am a _god_ , and I do have the power to restore your spirit alongside my own, returning your body’s vitality in the process. It would be less of a possession and more of…a partnership. We would _share_ your mind, body, and soul. To be quite honest, da’len, you might not even notice I’m there. Just like a conscience – but wiser.” He smiled. “What do you say?”

Lavellan didn’t know what to say. “How…how do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know you won’t try to take control the instant I’m back in my body? How do I even know you’ll return my spirit to my body in the first place?”

“Clever, clever,” Falon’Din murmured, seemingly pleased. “Listen, da’len. I am a desperate, desperate being – it wounds my pride to admit it, but I must. That is how you know I’m telling the truth – I want _out_ , Inquisitor. And I will accept that freedom in any form I can get it. Not to say that you’re a last resort! In fact, you’re more than satisfactory, da’len.” He reached out, tracing the shape of Lavellan’s face with a thin, soft finger, appraising him. “I’ll have to erase whatever brand that Well placed on you…easy enough. And those vallaslin will have to go, of course – I’m no slave of Ghilan’nain’s. Or anyone, for that matter.” He chuckled, and Lavellan frowned deeply.

“I’m not changing my _face_ for you,” he muttered.

Falon’Din looked disappointed, but sighed dramatically and relented. “As I said, da’len – I will accept it in any form I can get it. I swear on the Creators, on the Old Gods and the new, that I will uphold my promise. You will get your life back, and I will get my liberty.” He paused. “And this is not a lifelong commitment, da’len. You will be free of me soon enough – and your life will continue in my absence, don’t fret.”

Lavellan blinked. “Free of you? How? Where will you go?”

“I do have a body of my own, da’len,” Falon’Din said. “A very nice one, actually. But that body is locked away – and the only way to free it is to use your Mark to enter the Fade in the flesh.”

“Again?!” Lavellan exclaimed in utter dismay. But then he considered the true meaning of the god’s words. “Wait…you wish to free all the Creators, don’t you? You want us to open their prison in the Fade somehow.”

“Yes,” Falon’Din told him, eyes bright. “Think of it, Inquisitor – think of how much we have suffered, unjustly, jailed by the wicked Wolf for millennia. I have been trying and trying and _trying_ to make contact with the world of the living, to find someone who could somehow help me and my family – and then I found you, Inquisitor. And here you are, a chance to finally set things right.”

The god’s voice was wrought with misery, and Lavellan was beginning to see his point. But… “You knew I was going to die,” Lavellan whispered, shaking his head. “You knew all along. Did…did you _cause_ my death?!”

Falon’Din huffed with annoyance. “I am the god of death and _fortune_ , da’len. I had no hand in your death – I simply predicted it. Fate works in mysterious ways, and in this case death and fortune have come together in a very rare and special way.” His expression softened and he touched Lavellan’s cheek in an almost tender way. “I’m begging you, da’len. Your People have lost their gods, and they deserve to have them back, don’t they? Elves have fallen to the lowest of the low, they have been enslaved, trodden upon, ridiculed, made lesser in every way – but we can bring them the justice they need, da’len. We can make them great again – or at least let them know that all their prayers were not in vain.”

Lavellan swallowed, gazing into those endless golden eyes that nearly mirrored his own. To bring the gods back…it would mean so much to the People, his People. All their lives they had been clinging to a seemingly long-lost history, a crumbling past they had mostly forgotten. This was a chance to make that all _mean_ something. A chance to make his People proud. His clan would be proud. His parents would be proud.

His sister would have done it.

He nodded firmly. “Alright.”

“You agree?” Falon’Din breathed, eyes wide and eager.

“Yes,” Lavellan said, hoping he wasn’t about to seriously regret this. “How…how do we…?”

“Ah,” Falon’Din grinned, gaze darkening. “This is the fun part.” He cupped Lavellan’s jaw and leaned in, lips pulling up in a smirking pout and eyelids fluttering shut. Lavellan closed his eyes and told himself it would be over soon. No matter that Falon’Din was beautiful – he wasn’t Dorian.

Then, just before their lips touched, the image of the bloody mosaic on the floor of the ritual chamber flashed through his mind, hundreds of dying elves all for the man about to kiss him. No, not the man. The _god._ But that still didn’t make it right.

Lavellan stepped back. “Wait,” he muttered. “The gods enslaved my People just like Tevinter did. You used them for blood magic too.” He folded his arms. “You started wars to gain more followers, not caring how many innocents were killed because of them. Why would this time around be any different? Maybe…maybe you were _meant_ to be locked away. Maybe it should stay that way.”

Falon’Din’s smile dropped right off his face. His brow lowered. “Now, now, da’len,” he crooned, “some stories are just that – stories. I told you; I am a _friend_ –”

“No,” Lavellan snapped. “You’re not! My People were tools to you, and that’s all you see me as. A tool to be used…and probably discarded, in the end. And I won’t let you.”

Falon’Din’s mouth curled into an ugly sneer. “ _Let_ me? Oh, da’len, who said anything about _letting me_ do anything? I gave you an _offer_ – an offer to get your life back. But I can take your body and leave you behind without your permission, da’len. Oh yes, I can do that very, very easily.”

Lavellan’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare –”

“Ha!” Falon’Din advanced, jaw working. “The little Inquisitor’s power has gone to his head, has it? I think it’s high time for a reality check.” His hand darted out, too fast for Lavellan to react, and then it was gripping his throat, lifting him off the grey ground with ease. Lavellan struggled, clawing at the unyielding hands, feet kicking helplessly. “You are a pitiful mortal, and the only magic you have is magic you _stole_ on _accident_. I am a god, the one you pathetic shadows of my People pray to when death comes knocking, when wars begin raging, when you have a need for luck.”

Lavellan could feel Falon’Din’s nails slice through skin.

“It seems your luck has run out, da’len. I’m giving you one last chance to agree.”

“No,” Lavellan choked out, trying to break free. “You cannot have my body; you cannot have my Mark –”

“ _Your_ Mark,” Falon’Din imitated in a singsong voice. “No! It is not yours, da’len. It is the Mark created by my very jailor – your _friend_ Solas, the Dread Wolf himself. And I plan to use it against him, you see.” He chuckled darkly. “I will free all the other Creators, oh yes. But there’s only one way to do so.” Falon’Din squeezed his throat and Lavellan’s vision swam. “I’m going to tear down the Veil,” he declared, tossing his head. “You, Fen'Harel, and everyone else in this wretched echo of a world that once was great will be destroyed.”

Lavellan didn’t quite know why he still needed to breathe, but he was gasping frantically, horrified realization sinking in at the god’s words. Solas? The Dread Wolf? He didn’t want to believe, but the pieces kept falling into place – and Solas had tried to warn him, after all. Yet Lavellan had still fallen right into the shadow’s trap. His horror only grew as Falon’Din continued.

“But first…I think I’ll have a bit of fun. Such a lovely specimen, your vhenan – or should I say amatus? Oh yes, I’ll have fun with him. Do you think he’ll even be able to tell the difference between us, da’len?” He snickered. “Or maybe, he’ll like me better. How could you possibly compete with a god, after all?”

“Don’t touch him,” Lavellan hissed. “Don’t you fucking think about –”

“And then when I’ve had my fun, when he’s served his purpose…he’d never expect a knife in the back from his beloved Echo, would he? But you are trained as an assassin, after all…some practice couldn’t hurt.”

Lavellan snarled and twisted his head, biting down hard on the god’s knuckles – hard enough to draw blood, if Falon’Din had been real. But he was just an illusion created by sheer will – sheer desperation – and his hands dissolved into smoke, releasing the struggling elf. Lavellan landed heavily in a crumpled heap on the ground, his head pounding, a strange heaviness in his body keeping him down. Above him, the god darkened, figure growing taller and broader, soft gold eyes replaced by swirling marbled slits, smoky suggestions of feathers sprouting from his shoulders, curving up on either side of him like massive owl wings, a hood covering most of his face in sinister shadow.

“I could just let you go,” Falon’Din mused, “let your soul depart to its final resting place in peace.”

Lavellan shivered, staring up at him through a pale curtain of hair, chest heaving and eyes brimming with furious, frightened tears. The god scoffed mockingly.

“But I think I’d much rather cast you into the Void, to lose your mind for eternity.” He sneered, and Lavellan’s eyes widened in terror as the god reached for him, scrambling backwards but finding himself cornered and caught. “Say hello to the Forgotten Ones for me, before they rip your soul to pieces. Or maybe they’ll be more amused by your slow descent into madness.”

“No,” Lavellan whispered, frantic, flinching back. “Not that, please, _please_ –”

“I gave you a choice,” Falon’Din said coldly, nails inches from his neck. “You’re naïve for expecting any mercy from me now, da’len.”

“You…you were merciful once, I know you were,” Lavellan said quietly, eyes squeezed shut. “The…the stories say when you were young, you found a dying deer, wracked with pain and suffering, and you gathered her up in your arms and carried her beyond the Veil, to give her peace –”

Falon’Din faltered, just for a moment, but then his nails brushed against Lavellan’s face, over the vallaslin – too sharp, too harsh – and he chuckled darkly. “Some stories are just stories,” he repeated, hands closing around Lavellan’s throat.

A single tear slid down Lavellan’s cheek just before the mist around them shattered into a million pieces and the screeching, looming shadow of a dragon cast over them. Falon’Din leapt back as the dragon swooped down – and with shock Lavellan realized it was Nira, or some form of her, anyway. Her body was made of glittering points of light rather than scales, the blaze of her eyes nearly blinding, heat washing over them as she opened her jaws and roared, landing between Lavellan and the startled god.

“You dare,” Falon’Din started, enraged, but Nira cut him off with a vicious snarl, wings spread, shielding Lavellan from sight. Completely dazed, he huddled behind her, half expecting to find himself in the Void already – he had to be losing his mind, because that was the only explanation for what happened next.

_He is not yours,_ a furious, female voice said – a voice that Lavellan knew must be Nira’s. The words flowed from her form like echoes through a valley, distorted and disjointed but audible. _I am not yours._

“No?” Falon’Din chuckled, apparently less surprised by a _talking dragon_ than Lavellan was. “Then why did you bring him here? Because your blood is the blood of my Guardian, da’isenatha,” Falon’Din declared, his shadow spreading, inky tendrils curling around, reaching for Lavellan. “You are bound, as each god’s Guardian is bound to them even in their absence!”

_I am not your Guardian!_ Nira’s howl replied. Her frustration was palpable, making Lavellan shiver, causing her brilliant form to flicker. _I am no one’s Guardian but His!_

Falon’Din threw back his head and laughed, a deranged sound that made Lavellan wonder exactly how long he’d been locked away. “A halfbred morisenatha who thinks she’s bound to a puny nonmage with slave markings?! Oh, this world has truly gone mad. Step aside, beast.”

_You will die first,_ Nira growled.

“I said, _step aside_!”

And then a peculiar thing happened.

A surge of energy – magic, will, Lavellan did not know – rippled through the air, slamming into Falon’Din at the same time that he raised his hand up towards Nira. The god’s anguished cry rang in Lavellan’s ears as the fabric of the Fade around them began to tear, shredding bit by bit like it was nothing but tissue paper, fluttering away into the oblivion that replaced it. Fear filled Lavellan – when this world was gone, what would be left of him? He touched Nira’s side, frantic, and as soon as he did her brilliance tripled and the god’s screams did too.

“NO!” Falon’Din screamed, the shadows whirling away, ripped from his figure by the all-consuming light. His agony was so raw, so hopeless that Lavellan actually pitied him, especially as the god’s shadow fell to its knees, clawing at its own face in despair. His wails became wordless, the shadows splitting away into a thousand shrieking birds, which descended upon Lavellan and Nira in a wave of darkness, talons ripping at skin and scales until the light snuffed them out forever.

Lavellan thought he felt a last brush of jagged nails against his cheek before Nira’s wings engulfed him, and everything became nothing.

*

He awoke on his back in a strange forest with Nira leaning over him, her jaws parted, golden light pouring from them and…onto him? Yes, when he looked in utter disbelief at his outstretched arm, they were awash in what appeared to be ghostly golden flames, licking across his skin with nothing more than a faint tingling sensation. He tried to turn his head to look at his other arm, but found with mounting alarm that he could not move. Only his lips managed to part, a panicked gasp of air slipping past them, and Nira’s eyes opened at the sound, the golden fire ceasing though the tingling sensation did not. Her eyes, for a single moment, had lost their amber color – instead they were a familiar marbled violet and blue.

Nira made a rumbling sound deep in her throat and dipped her head down, nuzzling against his chest, and Lavellan cried out at the sudden rush of sensation, numbness replaced by pain that swelled up from his belly into his throat. Nira whined, eyes wide and concerned, nudging him onto his side with a gentle paw. Lavellan’s fingers twitched, anchoring themselves in the thick, soft grass he lay upon, and he vaguely realized how sweet the air smelled before he choked and heaved, retching viscous black liquid onto the ground, still only able to move his face. His stomach and throat burned, and tears pricked at his eyes as he kept spitting up the vile substance, black slickness trickling down his chin like a messy infant.

Finally, he stopped, his body aching all over – but it responded to his commands when he tried to sit up, dizzying relief rushing through him. The dizziness was probably also caused by the sudden rush of blood that left him reeling, vision spotting and adjusting as he hastily wiped the residue from his mouth. It smelled sour – more than that, it smelled _poisonous._ And maybe…maybe that’s exactly what it was.

Horrified, Lavellan stared at the congealing puddle he’d just coughed up, then looked at Nira as if she could provide some clarification. She chirped, happier than he’d ever seen her, and nuzzled him again, tongue rasping across his cheek. “Did you just –” He winced at the sound of his own voice – it was utterly wrecked, scratchy and hoarse from misuse. Lavellan’s heart pounded. This…this could not be happening.

His _heart_. Pounded. Oh, fuck. _Fuck._

Lavellan gaped at his dragon. “You brought me back,” he whispered, his body protesting every move as he struggled to stand, steadying himself against her foreleg. “How…why… _what_ …” He remembered everything in a sudden blur – dying and meeting the god of death being the main points of interest. Pulse still racing unsteadily, he wracked his brain for any foreign presence – any so-called conscience that proved to be more sentient than it seemed, perhaps. But he came up blessedly short – he was alone in his mind, alone in his body. Falon’Din really had been banished, then.

And Nira had really _spoken_. Lavellan turned with some difficulty, cupping Nira’s horned jaw and inhaling deeply, feeling a little sick at the sudden rush of oxygen. How long had he been dead for, if he had ever been truly dead at all? He closed his eyes. “Falon’Din said…you had the blood of his Guardian. Did he mean…a Guardian like the one at Mythal’s altar?”

Nira snuffled in a way that could have been affirmative, all semblance of actual speech apparently gone.

Lavellan’s brain still felt half-dead. The gods were _real_ – not just Mythal, but the gods who still lived, the ones imprisoned in the Black City by Fen’Harel –

No, by _Solas_ , if Falon’Din’s words had any truth to them. The more pressing issue was that he’d planned to tear down the Veil, something Lavellan hadn’t even known was possible! Especially not with the power of the Mark. He blinked down at his hand, half-expecting the Mark to have died along with the rest of him – but it still sparked brightly, veins of green snaking up his wrist. For now at least, Falon’Din’s plan would not come to pass. But Corypheus’s might, if Lavellan didn’t return to Skyhold in time. Or the Wastes? Could Dorian and the others still be there? No, no…if Nira had managed to get his body, then they must have…

Fenedhis, his head _hurt_. People, he suspected, were not supposed to be brought back to life. That rule probably applied to anything, actually. But in this case…he was glad the rule had been broken – he just wasn’t sure _how_.

Attempting to cast off his troublesome thoughts, Lavellan looked at his surroundings with bewilderment – he didn’t recognize anything. Even the trees were all wrong, too tall and too old, older than any trees he’d seen before. That should have been the first clue.

The second clue was when he staggered over to the other side of Nira and found himself standing before a crumbling altar crowned by a statue of none other than Falon’Din, a more accurate depiction than any of the shrines to him in the South. Twin owls were perched on the altar’s sides, gilded with…was that gold? Yes, it had to be, shining even under layers of dust and dirt. His eyes widened. What kind of altar was this?

There was writing at the altar’s base – in ancient Elvhen, like on Mythal’s altar. In a hushed tone, he read it aloud to himself. “Here lies the Friend to the Dead’s last sacrifice, and the last of his strength. Through blood he remains, through blood he shall prevail.”

He took a nervous, shaky step back, eyes darting down to the ground. This wasn’t just an altar. It was a _grave_. A grave for those who had been sacrificed to Falon’Din, perhaps as a last hopeless attempt to bring him back. No wonder the god had been able to appear to him here – blood magic, lingering even after all these years, must have touched the Fade here and strengthened him. And…and Nira had taken his body here?

As if sensing his sudden trepidation, she lowered her head, ears going back, and made a low, plainitive noise. “Was he right?” Lavellan whispered fearfully, shuffling closer to her. “Does he have a hold over you, like Mythal did with her Guardian?”

Nira whimpered unhappily, wings unfolding, and Lavellan gulped. “That…that means your father…he must have been –”

A bone-rattling roar pierced the relative silence of the clearing and Nira cowered, drawing Lavellan under her body protectively. He stared incredulously at the huge dragon that landed in front of the altar with a _crack_ of breaking branches and groaning trees as he broke through the canopy. There was no doubt he was Nira’s sire – though his coloration was darker, a shiny blue-black, his scales were tipped with that same blinding gold, and his head and build was just as graceful, just as unique and ancient as his daughter’s.

However, he was even larger than Mythal’s Guardian – and as he stalked closer Lavellan saw one of his eyes was clouded by cataracts, his heavy scales cracked and scratched in places, his leathery wings scarred and torn. This dragon was truly ancient – it made all the other high dragons Lavellan had faced look like fledglings in comparison. His tail lashed, heavy and armored, behind his lumbering form, and Lavellan knew that one strike from it would undo whatever magic Nira had worked on him. He was in no shape to _walk_ , much less battle a dragon or prove himself or whatever Falon’Din’s Guardian wanted from him.

Nira clearly understood this, but she could do little else except shield him and submit before the superior dragon, her body quivering from tension and distress. He turned his half-blind eyes upon them, neck curving and head rising, fire glowing in his throat. Lavellan had a sneaking suspicion that this dragon’s golden flames did the same thing as Nira’s…but the flames he prepared to unleash then were not golden, unfortunately.

Lavellan had heard being burnt alive was one of the most painful ways to go. He tried very hard not to think of Falon’Din’s promise to send him to the Void, to rot in the darkness forever...

He huddled against his dragon, barely able to stand, his revived heart forming a fluttering, fumbling rhythym in his chest, as if threatening to stop again. At any moment, he expected it to.

It almost did, but not because of dragon fire.

As the Guardian glowered and growled at them, the strange forest around the strange trio began to…to _pound_ , much like the sound of Lavellan’s pulse. Nira’s ears pricked, as did the Guardian’s, and Lavellan soon realized the pounding was that of…hooves. Hundreds and hundreds of hooves.

The source of those hooves was revealed as dozens of halla burst through the undergrowth, galloping through the clearing and stopping in a semi-circle of gleaming horns around the now-stunned Guardian. The halla just kept coming, the largest herd of the largest deer Lavellan had ever seen. They weren’t like the halla in the Marches or the Plains – their pelts shone like spun silver, their dark eyes glinted with a fierce, unmistakable intelligence, and there was a definite threat behind their steady advancement upon the Guardian.

One of the creatures came close enough to brush Lavellan’s fingertips, and when he made a small, utterly bewildered noise, it turned to him and inclined its slender head, gaze centered on his vallaslin. And then, so fast he nearly missed it, it shimmered with the same light of the silver figure in his dream, ethereal and soft. Do not die, it had told him in his sister’s lilting voice. Do not let him catch you.

The new words in the same voice entered his mind with clarity. _Go, now. The Mother protects you._

Lavellan swayed slightly. “Ghilan’nain?” he whispered, dumbfounded.

The halla tossed its head, horns catching the light like polished blades. _Go now, da’len. Go home._ And then it, along with all the others, charged in a pale wave at the snarling Guardian, blood from both dragon and halla spilling as horns slipped between scales and claws ripped soft white flesh all too easily.

Lavellan managed to tear his gaze away and scramble up clumsily onto Nira’s back, clinging to her neck and digging in his heels. “Take me home,” he whispered thickly, trying to block out the dragon’s roars and the halla’s cries behind him. “Take me home, Nira.”

She leapt into the air without a second thought, the Guardian’s roars becoming enraged as he watched his prey slip right from his grasp. Lavellan barely had the strength left to wrap his arms around Nira’s neck, but adrenaline spurred him on, survival instincts stronger than ever. Nira’s wings beat powerfully at the air that now smelled of blood and death, lifting them up, up, over the treetops of the ancient forest. And as they rose, Lavellan’s eyes widened and he understood – the forest was bordered to the north by a cerulean sea, waves crashing against the distant cliffs, and here and there among the towering trees he saw crumbling towers, tops capped with gold and silver, and knew he was looking at what remained of Arlathan.

Heavy sorrow settled in his chest as Nira soared away from the ruins of his People’s glory…but was it really so glorious, if it had been ruled by gods as cruel as Falon’Din, who sacrificed thousands for their own gain, who were really more like magisters than gods?

Perhaps he could ask Solas sometime. Fen’Harel? Lavellan wasn’t sure what to call him anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

His confused thoughts stilled as they left the forest behind, only for another city – a still-glorious one – to come into view to the west. It was also situated upon the coast, but its gold and silver towers stood tall and unbroken, a bustling port filled to the brim with ships of every kind, lush environs surrounded by tall, white walls. If they were closer, Lavellan was certain he would see the streets packed with people, going about their lives with no knowledge of the ancient dragon mere miles away.

Nira dipped a bit lower, wings catching a current, and Lavellan saw the statue perched atop the highest tower’s domed roof – a bronze dragon, wings outstretched, head tilted towards the heavens. And there, on the tower’s side, a banner flapped in the breeze – one Lavellan had seen many times before. A black serpent entertwined with a dragon – the heraldry of Tevinter.

“Qarinus,” he murmured, searching the walled city for…he didn’t know. A sprawling estate? A disenchanted father? A sign that this had been Dorian’s home for most of his life? But all he got was the sweet sea air, gulls wheeling around them curiously as they ascended into the wispy white clouds. Maybe he would visit properly someday. Maybe.

As they broke through the clouds and the land below them was lost from view, Lavellan felt something dig into his collar. He reached into his tunic, and slowly pulled out two pendants on two separate cords – the halla his father had carved and the…

_The message crystal._

Lavellan had pressed his lips to it before he even fully registered it, the crystal lighting up in reply. “Dorian?!” he said, frantic. “Dorian, please –”

“Hello?! Who is this?”

Dorian’s voice was distant, thin, but _there_. Lavellan’s sob of relief caught in his throat. “It’s me,” he choked out. “Dorian, it’s –”

“Who are you and where did you get that crystal?” Dorian snapped, sounding so upset Lavellan’s ears drooped. “Answer me right now, or I swear –”

“It’s me,” Lavellan said, pleading, “Echo.”

“This isn’t funny,” Dorian muttered wearily.

“I’m…I’m coming home, Dorian,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m –”

The crystal dulled, losing its glow completely. Lavellan stared at it, swallowing back tears of exhaustion and frustration. “I’m coming home,” he whispered, slumping against Nira’s neck. “Home…”

*

Nira didn’t stop flying, not once.

Lavellan didn’t know how she did it, but she never landed, never rested, not even when the wind tossed them about like a leaf above The Hundred Pillars, or when the wretched Silent Plains gave way to the lush Dales, crisscrossed by shining rivers. Somewhere among those emerald trees, Lavellan knew, the bodies of his Clan had been put to rest. He had no energy left for grief, though, so they just kept flying.

Days and nights passed and Lavellan hardly noticed. He was weak, his limbs, his bones, his muscles, his heart – and after the second night he’d vaguely felt a fever setting in, making his already ashen skin clammy and wracking his body with shivers. He almost fell off at least six times, hardly able to sleep without risking his (second) death. As it was, Lavellan drifted in and out of a kind of delirium, seeing Dorian’s face, his parents’ faces, Cassandra crying, Nira roaring, all of Skyhold dressed in black.

By the time they passed over the Vimmark Mountains and over the city of Kirkwall, his hands were raw and bloodied from holding onto Nira’s sharp scales. But he didn’t let go, not even when a gale caught them halfway across the Waking Sea, rain stinging his cheeks and ice encrusting his lashes, lashing Nira’s scales hard enough to make steam rise. The downdrafts carried them dangerously close to the pounding waves, saltwater splashing Lavellan into alertness. Feverish terror made him cling to Nira tighter than before, and it was only when they were safely over Highever that he allowed himself to relax (as much as one could relax in his situation, anyway).

The weather was cold but not dangerous in Ferelden – they passed endless plains of still whiteness, entire villages blanketed by deep snow, warm lamps glowing bravely in ice-covered windows. Their breath came out in puffs of pale mist, and the freezing temperatures did nothing to quell Lavellan’s fever. Stiffness returned to his joints and several times, he found himself coughing up black sludge again, which was probably not a good sign.

Nira did the only thing she could to help, which was to keep flying.

Lake Calenhad’s frozen waters stretched out below them, a sheet of frosted glass surrounded by the lights of struggling civilization. There were thousands of those lights; golden eyes in a cold, white world, a world that would come alive again come spring…if Corypheus didn’t destroy them first. The Mark crackled. Lavellan hurt all over. He didn’t know what idiotic god had chosen him for this, but he was really starting to hate them.

*

The Frostbacks certainly lived up to their name. As Nira descended on trembling wings towards Skyhold, freezing wind rushed past so violently that Lavellan’s chattering teeth bit his cheek, startlingly hot blood filling his mouth. He spit halfheartedly, some of the scarlet freezing on his chin. Lavellan fell forward listlessly, finally unable to hold on any longer as Nira dove down to the castle’s courtyard amidst screams and shouts that echoed indistinctly in Lavellan’s frozen ears.

Her paws touched the frozen earth hard enough to dislodge him. Lavellan tumbled from her shoulders, landing limply on his back. He stared with glassy eyes at the faces surrounding him, some familiar and some seen as if in a dream, distorted and blurred. But one stood out from the others – a dark-haired woman rushing forward, face flushed from the cold, armor icy against his skin when she gathered him up easily in her strong arms.

“Cassandra?” his lips formed, but only a faint croak of sound came out.

A smile split her face, though she looked as though she might cry at any second. “He’s alive,” she breathed. “Oh, thank the Maker, he’s alive.”

Lavellan promptly fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Falon'Din, honestly; DA4 better have him as a character. 
> 
> I can't believe we're nearly to the end, guys! Chapter 20 should be up very soon, I'm trying to finish this story in a timely manner because NaNoWriMo just started and I gotta get focused on my novel! But it's been a wild ride; hope you enjoyed.


	20. Chapter 20

He was in warm water, so warm it was almost scorching, and Lavellan whimpered feebly at the overload of sensation. He was vaguely aware of having been stripped down to his smalls, and if he had any strength left he would have protested. But the hands and cloth on his skin were gentle, even hesitant, wiping the dirt and blood away. For some reason, he found it difficult to open his eyes. They felt almost glued shut.

“He’s practically a skeleton,” a familiar female voice said as the cloth swiped over his protruding ribs and hipbones. “You really are a tough little thing, poor dear –”

Nausea hit Lavellan like a punch to the gut and he whirled in the bath, eyes flying open in panic, leaning over the edge and vomiting blackness onto the tiles. There was a gasp from the woman and then soft, broad hands were cupping his face as he shook, gut roiling in agony. The blurred face sharpened, and Lavellan’s eyes widened as Dorian leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead though there were at least two others with them. Was this the Fade; was he dreaming again? And if so, why did everything hurt so much?

“Amatus,” he whispered, and Lavellan drew in a shaky breath at the mere sound of his voice. “You’re safe now, thanks to Nira. She brought you home to us.”

Lavellan sniffled, trying to reach out and touch him, to assure himself he was real; this was real. “Dorian?”

Dorian nodded, stroking his wet hair back. “I’m so sorry I didn’t believe the message crystal, but I still…I still can hardly believe…”

Vivienne came into view, standing beside Dorian, and Lavellan immediately curled in on himself under her always-imperious gaze. It seemed a little more forgiving than usual, though. “We tested you quite thoroughly for possession, darling. That _was_ the logical conclusion, after all – Dorian, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull all attested to your definite lack of a pulse before you were taken away.”

“And yet, his pulse has returned,” Solas said quietly, stepping out from behind her. Lavellan immediately tensed, brow lowering when he saw the bald elf, and Solas’s eyes widened imperceptibly.

Dorian looked at Lavellan worriedly. “Is something wrong?”

Lavellan played it off with a nervous chuckle. “No, just…what happened? Why am I in a bathtub surrounded by mages?”

“You’re filthy, that’s why,” Vivienne said with a sniff. “Understandable, of course – but being covered in dirt does make healing far more difficult, dear. And then there’s the matter of…that.” She looked pointedly at the black substance on the floor, wrinkling her nose.

Solas kept his tone level, head bowed slightly. “You were unconscious for several days, during which I did what I could to keep you stable while Dorian…complicated matters.”

“He was fretting like a nursemaid,” Vivienne put in helpfully. “He had to be forcibly removed from your chambers, poor thing. What a shame his specialty is necromancy – thankfully there was little use for that.”

“I was not _fretting_ ,” Dorian protested, but there was no bite behind it. His hands shook as they cupped Lavellan’s jaw. “They said you might have been…not quite yourself.” He swallowed.

“I’m still me,” Lavellan said in a small voice. “You…you said you did tests, right? And found nothing?”

The three mages exchanged looks. Solas cleared his throat. “It…is difficult to be entirely certain. So an expert was called in. He should be here any moment –”

The door burst open, and Varric walked in, beaming when he saw Lavellan. But as the dwarf came closer, Lavellan could see the bags under his eyes, the new furrows on his forehead. “Freckles! You know, I thought we discussed how your death would absolutely ruin the book. Martyrdom doesn’t suit you. Your resurrection, however…now, we’re getting somewhere.”

“Hello to you too, Varric,” Lavellan greeted quietly, offering him a slight smile. Another man followed Varric in, a tall mage with a messy blond ponytail and tired brown eyes. “And you are…?”

“Freckles, this is Anders. He was…a good friend from Kirkwall, you might recall that he –”

Lavellan scrambled to sit up, eyes wide, nearly splashing Dorian in the face. “The one who _blew up the Chantry_?! Varric!”

Anders sighed heavily. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Inquisitor.”

Varric folded his arms. “It’s not like we had much of a choice, Freckles. Anders is…he’s the best at what he does; best healer I know of, anyway. And you _need_ a healer…among other things.”

“You’re here to make sure I’m not an abomination,” Lavellan mumbled. “I…see.”

Anders came forward quietly, nodding. “There is no doubt you were touched by some kind of powerful magic – whether that magic is still within you remains to be seen.” He raised an eyebrow at Dorian, who was still crouched beside Lavellan. “If I may?”

Cautiously, Dorian moved aside, biting his lip when Anders reached out and laid his palm upon Lavellan’s forehead, deep in thought. Several tense seconds passed. Then his eyes lit up – literally, lit up a faint blue. “There is…something…”

“A demon?” Vivienne asked immediately.

Anders shot her a mildly irritated look. “No,” he said. “If it were a demon, I would know.”

“A spirit, then?” Solas suggested nonchalantly.

Anders frowned, uncertain, and looked intently at Lavellan. “I don’t suppose you remember how you were revived?”

“Actually, yes,” Lavellan said.

The room erupted into confused questions. Solas said nothing. He just gazed at Lavellan silently, _knowingly_.

“It was Nira,” Lavellan blurted. “She…I was in…a forest.” Solas was still staring. Lavellan hurried on. “A strange forest, far away…she was breathing fire onto me, but it wasn’t…it didn’t burn? It was sort of…golden. And I couldn’t move, at first. I felt terrible.” He sank down slightly in the water. “Then…that black sludge, I kept coughing it up, and after that I could move again.”

“Golden fire?” Anders looked bewildered. “It sounds as if your dragon used healing magic – albeit a stronger form than ever seen before.”

“Wait,” Dorian cut in, excited. “You may be onto something! Cassandra told me that when Nira found them in the Wastes, she was entirely healed – but she’d just fought a high dragon before that.”

“The dragon healed herself?” Vivienne scoffed. “Darling, how preposterous. Dragons know nothing but destruction.” But she sounded a bit unsure.

“It is a curious idea,” was all Solas had to offer.

Anders hummed thoughtfully, palm still brushing over Lavellan’s forehead. “It’s not a spirit,” he finally determined, blue eyes fading, and the whole room let out a collective sigh of relief. But then Anders paused, startled. “This magic, the magic used to bring you back…Inquisitor, it is _ancient_. Perhaps even Elvhen. Do you think the Mark could have something to do with it?”

Lavellan shook his head. “The Mark doesn’t heal,” was all he said. _It knows nothing but destruction._

“I’ll take your word for it,” Anders muttered, and Lavellan yelped when his palm began to glow, smoothing carefully down his right arm and covering his scratched, still-numb hands in healing heat. Anders huffed in short-tempered exasperation – but Lavellan couldn’t blame him, the poor man looked more than a little sleep-deprived. “Relax, Inquisitor. You’re severely malnourished and dehydrated, and suffered mild hypothermia and frostbite. And your hands were rubbed raw by those dragon scales. You’re very lucky to still have all of your fingers.”

Lavellan sucked in a sharp breath. “That explains why I feel half-dead, then.”

“Mm. Also, it may be because you _are_ somewhat half-dead, Inquisitor.” Anders eyed the black substance with interest. “You were presumed dead for two weeks – since it took roughly a week for Nira to carry you back to Skyhold, that means it took a week to get you to that…strange forest, where she somehow brought you back. Regrettably, that means you probably spent an entire week as a corpse before being revived.”

Lavellan gripped the sides of the tub with ivory knuckles. Dorian made a strangled sound. Varric, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. Vivienne clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “That certainly explains the smell, darling.”

“So…so that black sludge is…”

Anders sighed. “Dead tissue, yes. Probably. I admit this is all very new to me as well. But the good news is that, whatever your dragon did…you’re very much alive now. It’s not that your body is perfectly preserved – it’s that it’s practically brand new – fresh skin, fresh hair, fresh organs –”

Lavellan barely stopped himself from gagging.

Anders cleared his throat sheepishly. “Apologies. My point is, Inquisitor, that you truly rose from the ashes – it’s just that some of those ashes may still be inside of you.”

Lavellan was still trying to get over the realization that he had been _deceased_ for a _week_. He glanced at Dorian, bracing himself for revulsion, disgust – but the mage just shook his head firmly and stroked Lavellan’s wet hair, gaze downcast.

“Where’s Nira?” Lavellan asked as Anders continued to work his magic with intense concentration. “Is she…”

“She’s recovering,” Dorian replied quickly. “Both of you had…a lot of exposure to the elements. But she’s in good hands; Frederic and Adan have been babying her and turned her old tent into a rather extensive infirmary. She’s supposed to be returned to her tower tomorrow morning to recuperate on her own.”

“That’s…that’s good,” Lavellan whispered. Somehow, they’d both made it back. But he didn’t feel much like thanking the Creators for it. Maybe just one of them. His sister’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Really, it’s a miracle you managed to survive in such harsh conditions,” Dorian continued, admiration in his tone. “Many other men would not have been so lucky, amatus.”

Lavellan didn’t even think before he said it. “Well, it’s not as if I haven’t nearly starved or frozen to death plenty of times before.”

Dorian’s expression faltered, eyes widening.

Lavellan quickly changed the subject. “Anders, I don’t know what you’re doing but I already feel less like I just threw up rotted organs.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, that’s always a good sign.” He had a hand over Lavellan’s heart, still glowing, and it was pleasantly warm. Lavellan actually felt like he could fall asleep right there, and was understandably disappointed when the mage pulled back, wiping his wet hand off on his robe with a shrug. “To be quite honest, I’m not sure there’s much more I can do for you, Inquisitor. You’re not possessed, though, and I managed to slow your ridiculously high metabolism temporarily, which should make it easier to gain weight and benefit your health.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan told him genuinely, nodding to Varric. “And thank you for bringing him. Truly, I…I appreciate it.”

Anders got to his feet and inclined his head. “Of course, Inquisitor.” He paused, chuckling a little. “It’s refreshing to meet a blonde elf who doesn’t hate me. Or mages. Or Tevinter.” He gave Dorian a meaningful look and if it wasn’t so ludicrous, Lavellan would’ve sworn Dorian blushed. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Inquisitor – should you need me, I’ll probably be sorting out the neverending mess that is Redcliffe. Try not to die again – I’ve no idea how reliable your dragon’s magic is.”

And on that optimistic note, the mage who singlehandedly started a Thedas-wide rebellion turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Varric shrugged. “Blondie’s a busy guy,” he said before hurrying after Anders.

“I’m afraid I, too, am quite busy,” Vivienne said, eyeing the departing Anders coolly. “But it is of course a delight to know you’re not an abomination, my dear. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“Yes, Lady Vivienne,” Lavellan mumbled. She smiled sweetly and left in a flurry of skirts.

Only Dorian and Solas remained. Lavellan, though he hated to do so, gently pushed Dorian’s hand from his shoulder. “If…if it’s alright with you, I’d like to speak with Solas for a moment. Alone.”

Dorian blinked, visibly hurt and bewildered, but nodded, looking between the two elves and biting his lip. “Of…of course, amatus.” He rose, hesitant.

“I’ll speak with you later, I promise,” Lavellan assured him. Dorian, still biting his lip, nodded and left hastily.

Solas had a strange expression on his face – as if he were trying very hard to remain impassive, but not quite succeeding. “You wished to speak with me, Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” Lavellan said quietly, and then because he quite frankly didn’t feel like this was a bathtub-appropriate situation, he heaved himself up and out of the water, immediately regretting it when he realized how terribly cold the air was and how weak his body still was. Dripping everywhere, he stood shivering, knees knocking, snatching up a towel desperately.

Solas crossed the room, and came back with a robe which he held out silently. Lavellan blinked, taking it and wrapping it around his significantly skinnier frame. “Thank you,” he told Solas.

Still, the older elf (much, _much_ older elf) said nothing. He seemed torn between fleeing or, possibly, turning that remarkable magic of his against Lavellan. Lavellan really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He took a deep breath; it rattled in his chest loudly. Genuine concern showed in Solas’s expression, if only for a moment, and that gave Lavellan the courage to continue.

“The forest Nira took me to,” he started, pulling the robe tighter around himself. “It was Arlathan.”

Solas inhaled sharply. “That’s…interesting, Inquisitor. But I do not understand why –”

Lavellan did not wait to hear his excuses. “I didn’t immediately wake up and see Nira reviving me. I was in the Fade, before that. And I was not alone. You remember, I’m certain, of the shadow I told you about, the one in my dreams?” Solas nodded mutely, guardedly. “Yes, well. The shadow was none other than Falon’Din.”

_That_ got a reaction. Solas reeled backward as if slapped, his lips parting and eyes widening in alarm. “You are certain?” he whispered urgently.

“Oh, very,” Lavellan said, “considering when Nira managed to rip his shadow to shreds, I found myself at the base of his final altar. Blood magic seems to be a reoccurring theme with him.” Lavellan sighed. “He hasn’t escaped the Black City, though – none of them have. But…but he was very close to doing so.”

Solas swallowed. “Inquisitor…what did he want with you?”

“He wanted to possess me,” Lavellan said dully. “Promised he’d restore both of us to my body…with the one condition that I’d let him use the Mark to tear down the Veil –”

“ – and set all the Creators free.” Solas shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Such an action would have destroyed the entire world, Inquisitor.”

“Oh, I know,” Lavellan muttered. “Of course, he didn’t tell me that until after I refused…which made him more than a little upset. But he…he told me some other interesting things, too.” Lavellan looked at Solas steadily. “Like your true identity, Dread Wolf.”

Solas didn’t flinch. “It has been a long, long time since anyone has called me by that name, Inquisitor.”

“And yet, here I am,” Lavellan said. “Calling you by your _real_ name.”

He exhaled heavily. “Solas _is_ my real name. Fen’Harel…came later.”

“And your betrayal? That came later too, I suppose?”

Solas’s eyes flashed. “You have met one of the Creators, Inquisitor,” he retorted. “Did Falon’Din seem like the benevolent god he was made out to be? Did he seem like anything more than an arrogant, selfish being who craves power in any form he can get it?”

“He seemed broken,” Lavellan shot back. “Deranged. Desperate. And he’s not the only one you betrayed! Maybe he’s twisted, but they can’t _all_ be like that!”

“Can’t they?” But Solas frowned, shoulders slumping a bit. “While you are correct that the Creators are not wholly evil, they are all guilty of one mutual, terrible crime. They killed Mythal, not I, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan would have protested, but then he remembered what Abelas had said at the Temple. _Elvhen legend is wrong. The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder._ His eyes widened. “What?! Why would they even…?”

Solas sighed. “Why did Maferath betray Andraste? Jealousy? Greed? The desire for chaos and greatness, in no particular order? I do not know, Inquisitor, and at the time I did not care why. It was an unforgivable crime, and the gods grew more corrupt every day. I did what I believed had to be done.”

“If they escape,” Lavellan murmured, “they’ll kill you.”

Solas smiled grimly. “I appreciate the warning, Inquisitor, but gods are not so easily killed. As you have seen.”

“Are you really a _god_ , though?” Lavellan asked doubtfully. “How does that…work, exactly?”

Solas’s mouth twitched with amusement. “You…are taking this quite well, Inquisitor. You’ve just learned your People’s gods exist and –”

“And they’re complete assholes,” Lavellan finished wearily. “No offense.”

“…Some taken.” Solas cleared his throat. “I sincerely hope you did not call Falon’Din that, true as it may be.”

“I think he read between the lines, considering that he threatened to forcibly possess my corpse and cast my spirit into the Void,” Lavellan muttered.

Solas grimaced. “That does sound like him, unfortunately. For what it’s worth…I am very, very glad he didn’t succeed, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan rubbed his eyes. “Trust me, so am I,” he agreed. “Anyway…he said the Mark – and I’m guessing the orb that created it – belong to you. Is that part of what gave you your power?”

Solas inclined his head. “Indeed. The orb…it was my foci, an ancient artifact designed to hold more magic than any living body could safely carry. But…Inquisitor, you must understand I was asleep for many, many years, lost in Uthenera. I only awoke when my orb was stolen.”

“By Corypheus,” Lavellan breathed. “Shit.”

“Quite. I tried to reclaim it, but by then, of course…it was far too late. You, however, stopped the destruction Corypheus threatened to bring down upon the world, Inquisitor – in more ways than you know. Your Mark…I will not lie, Inquisitor, it is not magic meant for mortals, even those of elvhen blood. I cannot say what it will do to you. But with it, you _can_ defeat Corypheus. And when you do...I’m afraid we must part ways, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan tilted his head. “Why? Where will you go? What will you do?”

“Help the People,” Solas murmured, looking away. “As I should have done long, long ago. And there is much to be done…as I’m certain you know all too well.”

“I hope your idea of ‘help’ isn’t the same as Falon’Din’s,” Lavellan said, almost warningly.

Solas looked up, pensive. “I hope so too, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan regarded him quietly. It was strange, perhaps, to feel so at ease around a being he’d been warned of since he could walk, but so many strange things had happened already. What was one more?

“Oh…there’s another thing. Nira…she’s the offspring of Falon’Din’s Guardian.”

“Yes,” Solas replied calmly. “I thought as much.”

“You…what?! You knew, all along?”

“All along? No, Inquisitor. But she has features characteristic of the ancient Guardians, and when you told me about the ‘shadow’…I began to consider it as a very real possibility. It seems I was correct,” Solas said with a touch of smugness.

“So…did that allow her to…to bring me back, then?”

Solas made a thoughtful sound. “I believe so. You see, Inquisitor…the gods all had their Guardians, and each one had unique gifts. Falon’Din’s Guardian could breathe fire that killed – but also fire that healed, even beyond death. Mythal’s Guardian could determine who was truly just and pure at heart, and who was corrupt and falsehearted. That is why you had to prove yourself to her.”

“And if I had been falsehearted?”

“She would have crushed you like a toothpick,” Solas said smoothly. “The Guardians are not like the so-called high dragons you have fought, Inquisitor. They have intelligence, but more than that they have morality, a defined sense of right and wrong that is simply not seen in others of their kind. That is why you were able to form such a bond with Nira.” Solas smiled slightly. “One could almost say she sees you as her god. She is your Guardian, Inquisitor, ‘til death do you part. And perhaps even after that, apparently.”

“That…explains so many things,” Lavellan said faintly. “Fenedhis…I’m so glad I fell in that hole.”

“ _You_ fell? Wasn’t that Dorian’s fault to begin with?” Solas said, smirking. “Fate works in mysterious ways, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan looked down at the halla pendant, curling his fingers around it. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.”

Solas watched him carefully. “Falon’Din wasn’t the only Creator you met, was he?”

Lavellan shook his head. “Guess there’s some benefits to having slave markings after all.”

Solas laughed, a rare sound. “Keep that optimism, Inquisitor.” His brow lowered. “You will need it in the years ahead.” He reached out, touching Lavellan’s shoulder lightly. “And I pray you have many, many more left.”

“Prayers straight from a god?” Lavellan joked. “I’m honored.”

But Solas stepped back, troubled. “What will you tell the others?”

Lavellan shook his head. “I think they have enough to worry about already, don’t you?”

Solas’s eyes narrowed. “Even Dorian?”

Lavellan let out a shaky breath. “Especially Dorian.”

“On that, we are agreed.” Solas turned to go. “You have found people who truly care for you, Inquisitor. Hold onto them for as long as you can.”

Lavellan watched him leave with an odd uneasiness settling in his chest.

*

Despite his enthusiastic plans to visit Nira and his old friends, Lavellan found exhaustion taking its toll on him again and ended up all but collapsing into bed, falling into the deepest, most dreamless sleep he’d had in a long, long time. There were no shadows, no illusions, no silvery spirits – just sleep. And as he lay in the muzzy moments between slumber and consciousness, familiar faces hovered around him – Cassandra, reverently placing his old bow upon his desk, swiping a hand quickly across her eyes; Sera, bringing a fresh batch of Jenny Tarts and some very strong swear words followed by a trembling kiss on his cheek; Bull, with an uncharacteristic quietness and a soft shoulder squeeze; Cole, murmuring happy phrases about wings and hearts into his ears…

But he awoke to Dorian, his weight dipping the mattress slightly as he sat on the edge of the vast bed, absently stroking Lavellan’s hair and turning the bluish crystal in his hands over and over and over.

Blearily, Lavellan nuzzled up into his palm, practically purring when Dorian’s thumb brushed his ear. “Hey, you,” he managed, voice low and sleep-slurred.

Dorian jumped, nearly dropping the crystal. “You’re awake,” he murmured. “Certainly took your time.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Lavellan said with a little laugh, but Dorian’s expression stopped him from continuing.

The mage swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I saw you die,” he whispered.

Lavellan didn’t know what to say to that. “…Sorry?”

“Remember what I said about apologizing?” Dorian huffed. “Although, in this case, yes, maybe an apology is in order. You…you didn’t even give me a choice in the matter, Lavellan! You forced the antidote down my throat and made me watch you waste away in my arms, because…because, what, I have more political influence?!”

“You have the potential to save a country –”

“And you have the potential to save the world!” Dorian threw up his hands. “Do you know what would’ve happened if Nira hadn’t turned out to be a whole new breed of necromancer? Thedas would have crumbled to the fucking ground without you! And all because you decided some bloody Tevinter mage’s life was more important than your own! It’s not, Lavellan! It’s _not_!”

Lavellan’s lip trembled. “It was to me,” he whispered. “It still is.” He started to sit up, defiant. “I don’t regret it. I’d do it again, if it meant you’d live.”

Dorian drew in a shuddering breath. “Lavellan, no. You can’t just…” He stood up abruptly, turning away. “I came to tell you I’m leaving for Tevinter after this is over, like you wanted. For good, like I planned to before everything went to complete and utter shit.” He held up the crystal. “If…if you really want, we could use these to communicate…but beyond that, I can promise nothing.”

Lavellan was certain his heart stopped a second time. “ _W-what?_ ”

“I told you I don’t know what I’m doing with you,” Dorian said dully. “But what I _do_ know is that…professing your love in a cave and then dying for me and then being _taken_ from me…that’s not _healthy_ , Lavellan, not for me and definitely not for you!” He set the crystal aside, next to Lavellan’s on the wardrobe, and put his head in his hands. “It should have been me.”

“But it wasn’t,” Lavellan said fiercely. “It wasn’t, and if it had been you’d be dead for good.”

“I thought you were dead for good!” Dorian shot back. “One second I was holding you, and the next I was holding your corpse! I thought, this is it; this is where I finally lose him forever. And I did, amatus. You were gone.”

“I don’t understand,” Lavellan whispered. “Would…would you rather I stayed dead?”

“No!” Dorian exclaimed, horrified. “Maker, no. But you and I…what happened in the Tomb…I understand it was very heat of the moment, and –”

“You think I didn’t mean it?!” Lavellan snapped. “I love you, you idiot! There, is that what you wanted? Some positive affirmation from the man who died for you?” Then he faltered. “Did…did _you_ mean it?”

Dorian was quiet.

Lavellan flinched. “Oh,” he said, voice cracking. “I…I thought…”

But then Dorian was kneeling, tipping his chin up with a finger, his eyes shiny. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he murmured. “It was never, ever that.”

“Then why?” Lavellan asked, pleading, searching his face for an answer. “Why are you doing this?”

“When we arrived at Skyhold, after you…after the Wastes, your advisors asked me to give your eulogy.” Dorian closed his eyes. “I did. And I told everyone about…about us. Like you wanted. But…but then I realized it didn’t matter anyway, because I ruined it, Lavellan; I let you think I was unfaithful instead of telling you how I felt and giving you what you wanted, what you _deserved_. I said you deserved so much better than me and I meant it, Lavellan.”

“You’re all I want,” Lavellan said, leaning closer. “Dorian, you’re the only one I want.”

Dorian scoffed. “Oh? Are you certain you couldn’t just replace me with a common whore at a feast?” He slumped, ashamed. “Forgive me, I –”

“I didn’t do anything with her,” Lavellan mumbled. “I…I was trying to make you jealous, but…but when we got to my quarters I froze up, and I realized I…I could only lay with you.” He sighed. “So instead, I asked her why people were unfaithful to their partners.”

Dorian’s face crumpled. “Amatus…”

“She said it was either because they thought their partner wasn’t good enough…or they thought _they_ weren’t good enough.” Lavellan reached up, cupping Dorian’s jaw softly. “You’re good enough, Dorian.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dorian said shakily. “Not again.”

“Then stay,” Lavellan pressed. “We can make this work, I know we can, please let’s just _try_. That’s…that’s all I’m asking of you.”

Dorian still hesitated. “Earlier, when you said you’d nearly starved and frozen to death before…well, I’ve been quite an ass, I think. I never even considered that…that living in the forest would be difficult, although of course I’m certain it was, but…” He bit his lip. “I must seem a spoiled brat to you, after everything you’ve been through. We’re just so different. There’s…there’s no way I could truly understand what you experienced.”

“No,” Lavellan agreed, “there’s not.” He tilted his head. “But we aren’t as different as you think. It isn’t as if your life was without hardship, Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, the hardship of running out of suitable one-night stands, perhaps –”

“The hardship of your own family trying to turn you into something – someone – you’re not.” Dorian winced and Lavellan looked at him steadily. “It’s a different kind of struggle, perhaps, but it still _matters_. I had my family. You didn’t.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” Dorian muttered, a bit choked.

“But you have one now,” Lavellan assured. “Dorian, you have a family here; a _home_ here, if you want it. Always.”

Dorian leaned in, lashes lowering. “I’ll…I’ll have to return eventually,” he whispered. “You were right, you know, about changing Tevinter.”

“Eventually,” Lavellan said, bringing him closer. “Not yet.” He kissed him slowly, carefully, and it almost felt like a first kiss all over again.

“Maybe…maybe I could take you with me,” Dorian added when he pulled away, breaths tickling Lavellan’s face. “If only to vex my father, anyway.” He chuckled, sounding a little wistful. “It’s a beautiful city, Qarinus…I think you’d enjoy it.”

Lavellan blinked, eyes wide as he remembered with a jolt. “I saw it!” he blurted.

Dorian blinked back. “I…what?”

“When…when Nira was flying back to Skyhold, we, we passed over Qarinus. I think it was, anyway? There was a great white dome with a bronze dragon atop it –”

Dorian grasped his hand tightly. “Yes, yes that’s it!” Then he paused. “You were that far north? There aren’t many forests up there…in fact, there’s really only one.”

Lavellan swallowed. “Dorian…if I tell you something…will you promise to keep it a secret?”

Bewildered, Dorian nodded. “Of course…what is it?”

“I…before Nira revived me, I was in the Fade. There was…Dorian, the shadow was there.”

Dorian’s mouth tightened. “Lavellan, about that shadow…”

“Yes?” Lavellan asked quickly, pulse pounding. There was no way he could possibly know the truth. Right?

“I asked Samson about Helena, and he said she was being visited by the same shadow.” Dorian glowered. “That damned thing told her to kill you, Lavellan.”

Lavellan’s blood ran cold. Another deception to add to Falon’Din’s long, long list, then. “It tried to possess me,” he said, curling up slightly. “It…it tried to make a deal with me, and when I refused…” He shuddered, and Dorian made a soft sound and settled fully beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Lavellan leaned gratefully into his warmth.

“Was it a demon?” Dorian questioned.

Lavellan closed his eyes. _Even Dorian…especially Dorian_. “I don’t know what it was,” he lied. “But it wanted the Mark. It was going to take my body by force, Dorian. It…it kept saying it was going to hurt you, to pretend it was me and then kill you when it was done.”

“Oh, amatus,” Dorian whispered, hugging him tighter. “What…what was it going to do with you?”

Lavellan’s hand fisted into the sheets. “Cast my soul into the Void for eternity.”

Dorian inhaled sharply, then he was holding Lavellan to his chest, their heartbeats pressed against each other, one hand curling over the back of Lavellan’s neck protectively. “Don’t you dare die again,” he warned. “Venhedis…could that shadow really have done it?”

“Yes,” Lavellan replied. “It nearly did.” He remembered the Fade breaking, shattering around him with startling clarity. “Nira saved me then, too – she ripped the shadow to shreds.”

“Kaffas,” Dorian said, still embracing him. “I suppose I should thank you for stopping me from electrocuting her when we first found her…” He pulled back a little, though their chests still touched – the intimacy was so unlike what Lavellan was used to, and he certainly wasn’t complaining about the way the mage held him – careful but desperate at the same time, as if he thought Lavellan might break at any second but was on the verge of breaking himself.

Dorian’s eyes were troubled, and his arms were tense. Lavellan stroked his bare shoulder worriedly. “Dorian? What’s wrong?”

“When Nira came for your body…she was out of control, Lavellan. She broke through the entire Tomb, and when I tried to calm her down…she would have killed me. Her loyalty to you…it goes beyond simple companionship, amatus. She loves you, and as dangerous as her way of showing it might be, it also brought you back to life.” Dorian frowned. “I don’t think she’s a normal dragon, Lavellan – of course she has miraculous healing powers, but it’s more than that. She _feels_.”

Lavellan laughed nervously. “How do you know other dragons don’t feel too? I doubt they’re coldhearted and savage to the bone –”

“No,” Dorian continued, “not like that. The Dalish…you consider halla to be superior to normal deer, right?” Lavellan nodded slowly. “Alright, why?”

“Because…they’re not just deer, they’re…” _Guardians._ He cleared his throat. Dorian was too smart for his own good. “They’re loyal and intelligent creatures that protect us, a bit like mabari in a way.” He wrinkled his nose, rethinking that comparison. “Nevermind, not quite like mabari at all. Anyway…what were you saying?”

Dorian shrugged, looking more unsure. “It’s just a theory, but I think your Nira may be something very special, amatus. A new type of dragon…one slightly less bloodthirsty and slay-able. They’re magnificent creatures…imagine if others could raise them as you did with her? They’re a dying race, and it seems a shame not to at least try to preserve the good parts of them. It’s worth investigating, anyway. Don’t you think?”

Lavellan smiled despite himself, despite all the secrets already swirling between them. “Of course,” he replied, and he was going to say something else but was cut off by a shallow cough. Dorian grabbed him like he was about to spontaneously combust. Lavellan gave him a halfhearted glare. “I don’t think my cold is life-threatening,” he said drily. He coughed again, a little louder, and reluctantly let Dorian guide him back down against the pillows. “ _Really_ , I’m fine –”

“Don’t,” Dorian said quietly. “Just…just rest, please. You still feel like skin and bones.”

Lavellan grimaced. “Oh, well, thanks for that.” But…the fatigue was creeping up on him again, so he didn’t feel much like arguing. “Will…will you stay? You don’t have to –”

Dorian laid down beside him, pulling the soft blankets over both of them and kissing Lavellan’s brow. “I’ll stay,” he promised, and Lavellan knew he wasn’t just talking about the bed. “I’ll stay, amatus.”

“I love you,” Lavellan whispered.

“I know,” Dorian replied, eyes bright.

Lavellan kicked his shin until he said it back, the two of them giggling uncontrollably until Lavellan literally laughed himself to exhaustion. He fell asleep with a smile on his face and a lover beside him, their hearts beating as one.

*

At some point, Lavellan awoke soaked in sweat and disoriented, a heavy weight against his back. He panicked and crawled to the other side of the bed as he felt bile rising in his throat. Dorian made a confused sound and reached sleepily for him. Lavellan flinched away and made it to the edge of the bed before heaving, blackness splattering on the floorboards and his hands as he abortively tried to cover his mouth. He exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut and trembling as he waited for the pain to die down.

Dorian touched his back, and Lavellan flinched away, staring down at the black liquid on his palms numbly, illuminated in the darkness by the Mark. It smelled metallic and sour, and though Anders had said he was most definitely not rotting anymore…he had left his body, left it to decay just like all the other corpses they’d found in the Plains, the Mire, the Graves…what would have happened if Nira had waited even longer to revive him? If she had waited until nature set upon him, until there was nothing left but bones –

“Lavellan. Please, answer me,” Dorian whispered. He’d been saying something…Lavellan could barely hear it over the roaring in his ears.

Lavellan swallowed harshly. “What?”

“Are…are you alright?”

Lavellan’s laugh was forced. “Me? Oh…I’m fine, just fine, just fully realizing I was a corpse for a _week_ …how can you even stand to touch me?” He hunched his shoulders, trying to brush Dorian off, but his palm stayed there on the nape of his neck, warm and steady.

“I kept holding you, you know,” Dorian said quietly. “Even after you died, I couldn’t let go of you. I know…I know it wasn’t you anymore. But I didn’t have anything else.”

“It wasn’t me anymore…” Lavellan breathed, choked. “If it wasn’t me, Dorian, then where did I go? Where was I during that entire week?” He was becoming panicked. “There was nothing, Dorian, there was no Maker, no afterlife – when I died –”

Dorian leaned against his back, lips soft on his shoulder. “Shh,” he whispered. “You said you went to the Fade, yes? That you were a spirit –”

“I wasn’t,” Lavellan snapped. “I wasn’t a _spirit_ ; I was just me, like how you are when you dream…it was like a dream. But death? Death was…nothing. I was just…gone. There’s nothing, Dorian,” he said, raising his head and looking back at the mage, heart pounding. “There’s nothing on the other side.”

“You don’t know that,” Dorian murmured.

“I died!” Lavellan cried, trembling. “If there’s something beyond death, then where the fuck was it, huh? Because I don’t remember anything. Nothing…”

“Maybe that’s just it,” Dorian replied thoughtfully. “Maybe you can’t remember because you’re not supposed to remember.”

Lavellan bit his lip, managing to calm down enough to listen. “I…what?”

“If there really is an afterlife…and believe what you want, but I’d like to think there is – it makes everything a bit less doom and gloom – it would probably be a lovely place. So lovely, in fact, that it was everything you wanted it to be, everything good you had in life – and how could you come back from that, Lavellan? How could you ever be happy here – in this absolute mess of a world – again? You’d be miserable.” Dorian squeezed his arm. “There are some things you might be better off not remembering.”

Hopeful, Lavellan gazed at him. “You…you truly believe that?”

“I believe that there’s an afterlife, yes,” Dorian replied. “And I believe you would go to the best possible one, walking at the Maker’s side or frolicking with your entire pantheon for eternity or whatever it is. But you’re not going back there anytime soon, understood?”

Lavellan nodded, chest tight, leaning back against him. “At the very least…let’s avoid dying in caves. That was terrible. I couldn’t even see the sky…although I could almost imagine I saw it in your eyes.”

Dorian flushed. “The things you say, amatus.”

“All the utterly wicked things I’ve said to you and _that_ makes you blush?” Lavellan chortled, shaking his head and wincing a little at the accompanying throb in his skull. He looked down at the floor and his hands and wrinkled his nose. “I ought to clean this up before the entire room starts smelling like –”

Dorian took his hand, and Lavellan froze. Magic glowed between their palms and when Dorian pulled away his hand was clean. A flick of his wrist, and the floor was more sparkling than it had been before. Lavellan frowned. “You didn’t have to –”

“Hush. I’m allowed to fret over you for at least two weeks. That means you _rest_ , and I take care of you.” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I’m your faithful lackey, remember?”

“No,” Lavellan countered, smiling. “You’re my amatus.”

Dorian grinned. “What’s the difference, really?” He managed to move away before Lavellan could swat at him, getting up from the bed and going over to the clock on Lavellan’s desk with a small ball of floating light in his hands, casting strange shadows all around the dark room. He peered at it. “Four in the morning,” he groused. “I suppose it could be worse. I suspect the kitchens are already awake – why don’t I go scrounge for some early breakfast? Are you hungry?”

Lavellan just barely managed to stifle his stomach’s growl. “You don’t have to –”

“Nevermind, don’t answer that, you’re literally starving. You like that buttery toast with berries and powdered sugar, right? Myself, I’m thinking crepes. Maybe they’ll taste less bland with a spoonful of cinnamon…”

Lavellan stared at him. “You’re not seriously fetching me breakfast?”

“Oh, quite serious,” Dorian said as he pulled on his robes. “Breakfast in bed. Stay right there, I’ll be back shortly!”

And then Dorian left. To go get breakfast. For him. At four in the morning.

Lavellan had a sneaking suspicion he’d died (again) and gone to that afterlife Dorian was so adamant about.

*

When Dorian returned a while later, Lavellan had managed to get dressed (he’d only almost collapsed once, which he counted as progress) and make himself look…well, perhaps presentable was not quite the right word. But he did look less like he’d just returned from the grave. It was progress.

Dorian was carrying an impressive number of trays, which he set down on the floor after Lavellan’s insistence that he didn’t actually want to eat breakfast _in_ bed – far too unsanitary. Dorian scoffed a little at that, innuendo on the tip of his tongue, but he presumably forgot all about it when Lavellan proceeded to wolf down his entire meal in the span of a few minutes. He was hungrier than he’d realized, apparently, and this was a much better substitute to the soup they’d apparently been feeding him.

“Your table manners,” Dorian said, “are atrocious.”

Lavellan wiped his mouth daintily, shrugging. “Good thing we’re not at a table, then.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, took a small bite of his crepes, then paused and tilted his head. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “This fruit…it’s from Tevinter!” He looked adorably excited about the strange, ruby-colored berries on his plate. “It’s called pomegranate, have you ever tried it before?”

Lavellan shook his head, curious. “Is it good?”

Dorian picked up one of the odd little berries. “Very. The family estate in Qarinus had an entire orchard of pomegranate trees. They look like berries, no? But they’re actually seeds from a large fruit that looks…a bit like an apple, perhaps. The fruit itself is completely unedible – but the seeds are delicious. Here, try it.”

Then before Lavellan could even blink Dorian’s fingers were in his mouth, and it was a bit difficult to concentrate on the taste of the fruit. But it was good, very good – sweet and tangy and intense, juice staining Dorian’s fingers as he pulled back, Lavellan’s teeth scraping his skin.

His eyes were wide and dark. Lavellan was fairly certain he wasn’t just excited about fruit, now. “I like it,” Lavellan told him, taking his wrist and bringing Dorian’s fingers back to his lips. He nodded to the purplish stains. “You’ve got a little…”

Dorian’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move away. “Ah…yes, well, it tends to be hard to wash off, unfortunately –”

Lavellan kissed his knuckles, and then sucked the two stained fingers into his mouth, looking at Dorian from half-lidded eyes. He swirled his tongue around them, tasting sweetness again. Dorian cursed, letting his hand drop limply from Lavellan’s mouth when the other finally released him.

“ _Rest_ ,” Dorian mumbled insistently as Lavellan pushed aside the dirty plates to move closer to him. “You need to _rest_ …oh, kaffas –”

Lavellan hummed, inches from his face. “I thought you said you were supposed to take care of me?”

Dorian’s lips parted, a soft moan slipping out. “You’re insufferable,” he breathed, “and I hate you.”

Lavellan smirked, running a fingertip over his chest. “You love me.”

“Yes,” Dorian whispered. “I really, really do.”

*

By the time they managed to get out of bed, the sun was beginning to rise, painting the room a rich gold among the bluish remnants of night. Lavellan all but tumbled onto the floor as he got up, stretching luxuriously before padding over to the window.

Dorian laughed, still sprawled on the sheets lazily. “Are you _trying_ to flash all of Skyhold? Because I think it’s working.”

Lavellan stuck his tongue out at him, reluctantly admitting that some clothes were probably in order. He paused with a shirt halfway on as a shape moved outside, out of the corner of his eye. He looked towards it quickly, on edge – only to see Nira land atop her tower, climbing in through the top after her morning hunt. He turned to Dorian eagerly. “They returned her to her tower! Let’s say hello.”

Dorian yawned, sitting up. “Right now? It’s still…” he squinted. “Only six in the morning!”

“Come on,” Lavellan wheedled. “We can watch the sun rise if we hurry.”

Dorian threw a hand over his face. “Ugh…fine. Just give me a moment. I need some…recovery time.”

Lavellan preened. “Recovery time? What’s that?”

Dorian groaned.

*

Despite Dorian’s complaining and ridiculously long morning routine, they did make it out onto the ramparts in time to see the sun peeking over the horizon, illuminating the wintry world around them. Snow had gathered on the stones and crunched below their boots, but Lavellan felt very warm with Dorian’s arm around him, steadying him as they walked. They didn’t say much, and as they approached the tower Lavellan felt Dorian tense a little.

He looked up at the mage. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She won’t hurt you.”

“You don’t know that,” Dorian retorted, brow furrowing. “She is a high dragon –”

“– and I would be a fool to forget it. I know, Dorian. But she’s not just any dragon. She’s _my_ dragon.” He hesitated. “ _Our_ dragon. It's your fault we found her, after all.”

Dorian shook his head. “It was you who saved her, not me –”

“Please,” Lavellan pressed. “Just trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Dorian said, and he relented, walking with Lavellan to the tower door. He was about to open it – but he needn’t have bothered. The loud scratch of claws on stone filled the air and Nira’s head poked out from the ruined top, smoke curling from her mouth when she saw them. Oddly catlike, she leapt down from the tower, landing heavily in front of them, eyes narrowing slightly when she saw Dorian.

But any displeasure she felt was quickly overshadowed when Lavellan limped towards her, struggling to stay upright when she started nuzzling him enthusiastically. “Hey, hey, calm down, it’s me, I’m alright…thanks to you.” He touched her muzzle softly. “My Guardian,” he whispered, too low for Dorian to hear. Nira’s ears pricked, though, and she huffed out a warm, affectionate breath against his face.

Then Dorian stepped forward and she drew back a little, ears going back. Dorian sighed. “I told you this wasn’t going to work –”

“It will,” Lavellan said, determined, turning back to Nira. “Dorian said you almost killed him,” Lavellan said quietly to her, unsure if she could truly understand…but certain that the meaning wasn’t wholly lost on her.

“You can’t kill him,” Lavellan ordered. “You can’t hurt him.” Nira whined, eyes flicking to Dorian with what could have been shame. Lavellan reached out to stroke her scales, tone softening. “I know you saved me,” he murmured. “I know you protect me, no matter what the cost. And I know you thought you were protecting me when Dorian tried to keep my body from you in the Tomb. But he…he’s my guardian, Nira, as much as you are mine. He’s my _vhenan_.”

Nira blinked slowly. Then she took a step forward, closer to Dorian, head tilted and jaws parting.

“Lavellan?” Dorian hissed, standing completely still. Nira’s stance was not entirely comforting – somewhere between predatory and cautious.

“Nira?” Lavellan murmured, worried, but she ignored him, head lowering toward’s Dorian, teeth showing in terrifying glints of white. Her wings spread slightly, her nostrils flared, a soft orange glow in her throat –

“Nira!”

And then the glow faded and she licked Dorian’s face, almost knocking him over. Dorian spluttered. Nira sat back on her haunches, apparently satisfied. “And I thought mabari were bad,” Dorian said weakly, wiping dragon spit off his cheek. “But…you have my utmost gratitude for not roasting me, I suppose.”

Nira made a rumbling noise that sounded quite like chuckling. Lavellan looked up at her, the early sunshine gleaming on her scales, setting her wings afire as she spread them, glinting on her horns as if they were tipped with gold. She was beautiful, she was powerful, she was magnificent – more than that, she was his.

Then he looked at Dorian, the mage’s handsome profile a rich bronze in dawn’s light, his eyes glittering like fragments of the finest glass, his skin warmer than any sunshine as he took Lavellan’s hand in his own. He was beautiful, he was powerful, he was magnificent – more than that, he was his.

Lavellan looked out at the bright horizon. There was a storm coming – he could feel it.

But he had his anchor. And he wasn’t letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I suppose this story went out not with a bang, but with a whisper. Tons of crazy shit happened in-between, so I think it's justified. I hope you agree. These boys and their dragon deserve some rest. 
> 
> Oh man, this story. I can't believe how much time I devoted to it - but what's even harder to believe is that so many people read it and enjoyed it. It's because of all of you that I had the inspiration to keep this story going, and I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for making a stressed, antisocial, insomniac 16 year old girl smile time and time again. It's one thing to write a story you've been pondering for months - it's a whole other thing to see how other people react to that story, people who read it and comment on it and cry about it (hope you didn't use up too many tissues!) and bring it to life in their own special way.
> 
> So thank you for bringing this story to life. 
> 
> (I'm making this story into a series, but don't expect a sequel - there may, however, be a oneshot or two in the same AU, possibly one where Dorian and Lavellan go to Tevinter because c'mon, there's so much potential there. But other than that...this is goodbye! Echo Lavellan out.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Bull and The Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7135793) by [Fantasybond_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasybond_2016/pseuds/Fantasybond_2016)




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